


Old enough to know (we're never letting go)

by distinctive_pineapples



Series: Merlyn Boys [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Chicago Med
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Connor Rhodes and Tommy Merlyn are Twins, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Humor, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-10-18 22:19:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20646578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distinctive_pineapples/pseuds/distinctive_pineapples
Summary: “I take it you’re the evil twin, then.”A beat, then Connor rears back in offense. “Excuseme?”His cohort breaks into a smug grin as he bundles the ice pack back together. “Let’s see—serious, silent one with a beard,” he nods to Connor, before gesturing to himself, “dashing, charming one who knows how to throw a great party. Basic math, really.”Connor really hopes his expression conveysexactlyhow deranged he finds his lookalike. “Has anyone checked you for a concussion?”Timestamps in the lives of Connor Rhodes and Tommy Merlyn, secret twins, and the impact of being so.





	1. Part I: Five Years

**Author's Note:**

> Contrary to the similar title, this is _not_ a sequel to "Dark enough to find myself," my first crossover between these two fandoms. (I _have_ tossed that idea around a few times, though; still just waiting for something to stick.) That just happened to be pure coincidence.
> 
> This idea, however, has probably lived in my head in some form for just as long--a different take on the fact that Colin Donnell is both Tommy Merlyn and Connor Rhodes. Rather than merging them together as one character, as I'm wont to do, I decided to go the twin route (Merlyn Boys, as I affectionately call this concept), and _oh man_... I had no idea back then exactly how this would turn out. I'm not a twin (or a sibling at all for that matter), but I always love the concept of close siblings (but definitely ones who still rag on each other), and goodness, this took so much out of me, but it was so worth it.
> 
> Just a couple quick notes, and then I'll leave you all to it.
> 
> Seeing as I haven't watched either of these shows in quite some time, please consider only Chicago Med season 1 (and maybe a couple ideas from the beginning of season 2) and through Arrow season 3 to be canon. The latter timeline I'm probably a bit more lenient with, as it's not the main one in play and thus events beyond season 3 can be presumed to have happened unless specifically noted otherwise. But season 3 is as far as I watched with Arrow, so that's what I'm using.
> 
> I'm also taking some liberties with Connor's medical career, as I'm using Tommy's age for the twins when I assume that Connor is closer to Colin's actual age (about two years older) in canon. Since I'm trying to stick close to the timelines for both shows as well as the progression from med school, residency, etc., I pretty much had to shave Connor's undergrad career down to about two years to get him where he needs to be in the Med timeline. So we're going to just say that he maxed out on the college credit he could earn in high school and then took whatever summer classes he could in order to graduate and get on to med school early.
> 
> Also, not sure if it's later revealed where he did his residency, but for the purposes of this story--in an effort to merge the Chicagoverse into the Arrowverse--we're saying Connor did his residency in Earth-1's version of Gotham City.
> 
> One last note: uh, please heed the three tags immediately following "Sibling Bonding." There will be moments of these two being dorks, but there will be others that I anticipate will be tissue warnings. For real, this is probably the angstiest thing you will read that's titled after a Jonas Brothers lyric.
> 
> (No, seriously: I started writing this around the time I remembered how much I loved their self-titled album, which is how we ended up here, paying homage to "That's Just the Way We Roll.")
> 
> I've talked long enough already: enjoy!

If anyone _really_ wants to know, these are the things Connor Rhodes is inclined to share:

  * He was born on February 1, 1985, and raised in Chicago. (Lake Shore Drive, to be exact, but that’s only if he’s really pressed.)
  * His mother passed when he was 10 years old. No, he does not want to talk about it.
  * He’s long been estranged from the rest of his family, ever since he rejected his father’s plans for him to take over the family business and ran off to go into medicine.

That’s all anyone needs to know, even if it’s only a fraction of the truth.

**. . .**

Here are the things that are best left unsaid:

Connor Rhodes is born on February 1, 1985, after Elizabeth Rhodes—on a business trip with her husband—is checked into Starling City General Hospital.

Connor Rhodes does not live to see February 2, 1985. At least, the child who was originally given the name does not. 

Call it a mix-up, a clerical error, a deliberate swap—no matter the method (unknown as it is), at some point the Rhodes baby was switched with another infant born the same day—one who survived where his namesake didn’t. 

And so the faux Connor grows up in a family presumed to be his blood, but are in fact quite the opposite.

At age ten, Connor finds a sheet of paper on top of his mother’s pillow. It looks like test results when he picks it up, with letters and numbers in a nonsense order of which he can’t make sense.

Connor’s dad often tells him that his mother is sick, even if she doesn’t have a fever or a cough or the sniffles, so at first glance Connor thinks the paper might be from a test his mom had done, one that might help her get better. But then he reads the top of the chart—the one part of the page that actually makes sense.

That’s his mom’s name up there, but also _his_. Dad’s there too, and even Claire! All of their names have a bunch of numbers underneath them that fall in rows with the mishmash of letters, and Connor can see that a lot of them are the same between his parents and Claire.

But not him.

There’s something that tells him this is important, which is why he takes the results and stows them in a Spanish dictionary his mom got him, determined to figure out what those letters and numbers mean one day.

(Later that night, Elizabeth Rhodes jumps to her death from the roof of their house, and all Connor can think of is that sheet of paper.)

Connor is a high school senior by the time his Advanced Biology class dives deeper into DNA, and the examples of test results in the textbook look a little too familiar. 

He goes home, removes the dictionary from his shelf, and removes its hidden contents to compare to the information laid out in his textbook.

And suddenly, everything makes complete, horrible sense.

Claire is off at college, which means there’s no one else to worry about when Connor’s long-mounting tensions with his father—just _Cornelius_, rather—reach their zenith that night. And oh, do they.

There’s no way that Connor is a Rhodes, given his understanding of DNA and the hard evidence in front of him. There is also no way that Cornelius didn’t already know this, not when the results were out in plain sight before Connor took them.

Or maybe he knew even before that, and was the catalyst to taking in another family’s son.

(Had Connor’s mom figured that out, and had the test run to prove it? Was that why she did what she did that night, unable to fathom her husband’s actions and fearful of what might happen if she were to reveal what she knew?)

Cornelius denies up and down having any hand in the matter, and the brush-off of Connor’s suggestion of the link to his mother’s death—paired with the reminder that his mother was severely depressed—only leaves Connor with simmering rage and heightened suspicion.

By some miracle, Connor makes it through the school year and that massive mistake of a summer before he tells Cornelius exactly what he’s going to do with his role in the family (_not family_) business and runs straight for his carefully planned pre-med track, severing ties with everything behind him.

The DNA results and Spanish dictionary come with him, a reminder that somewhere, there are people with a combination of letters and numbers that align with Connor’s like his mother and Cornelius do Claire.

**. . .**

When Connor is twenty-three, he finds more than he bargained for.

* * *

> ** _Guadalajara, May 2008_ **

Like the setup to a bad joke, a third-year med student walks into a bar.

The bartender takes one look at him and says… 

“Oh, good, you’re here.”

Nat, ever so forward, marches out from behind the counter and grabs Connor by the shoulders before he can even eke out a greeting. Her grip light but firm, she promptly manhandles him to a secluded corner booth. “Things got a bit _exciting_ earlier—not sure what happened, but I guess this guy from out of town said the wrong thing to one of my other regulars. So now I have a freshly-banned old customer, and a new patron who should really seek medical attention.”

Slowly recovering from the abruptness of the situation (really, he just wanted to stop in for a quick drink and catch up with his favorite bartender, before returning to a quiet night at his apartment), Connor manages to raise an eyebrow at that. “Is this because you trust my skills, or was I just the most convenient solution?”

“How about that third option?” Nat asks, giving Connor a final shove the moment they come in range of their destination. “Like, maybe there’s something you forgot to tell me over these last few years?”

Connor staggers a bit from the sudden push forward, gaze turned down at his off-kilter feet. He manages to catch himself on the table before he falls over the form half-laying on the booth seat and half-dangling off the edge, but the angle at which he lands still brings him face-to-face with…

“Okay, that guy did _not_ hit me hard enough for me to be seeing double,” the man in the booth quips, face half-obscured by the ice-stuffed towel pressed over his right eye. Still, the features that are visible are enough to make Connor freeze up completely.

“No, wait, that’s not right,” his companion murmurs as he flounders out of his reclined position to sit upright. “You’re only one of me, so it’s not so much _seeing_ double as seeing _a_ doub-….oh.”

The ice pack drops to the table with his hand (and his jaw), unveiling a blooming dark blemish on a face almost completely identical to Connor’s.

Nat takes advantage of the stunned silence from both parties to exaggeratedly clear her throat. “Again—something you want to tell me?”

Even if he did, the sudden failure of his vocal cords would hinder Connor’s intentions. It’s a wonder he can even move his lips, soundless as they may be.

In the years since he first found those DNA results, on all those sleepless nights when he just couldn’t help but _wonder_, Connor had never even considered that he wasn’t his birth parents’ only child.

And most certainly not a _twin_.

The other man recovers first, bewilderment—and maybe a hint of sorrow?—slipping fluidly behind the easy smile that clicks into place. “If the answer you’re looking for is my number, then I’d be delighted to help,” he replies lightly, shooting Nat a flirtatious glance out of the corner of his blackening eye.

It’s more of a deflection than a sincere offer, and clarity sparks behind Nat’s dark eyes.

“_Oh_,” she breathes, gaze flitting hummingbird-quick between the two doppelgängers. “Oh, you didn’t…” Her lips drift closed almost timidly, and she shoots Connor an apologetic look before slipping away and back to her duties.

Leaving Connor and his as-yet unnamed maybe-brother to stare at each other in awkward silence.

It lasts for about half a minute, before the other man once again makes the first move.

“I take it you’re the evil twin, then.”

A beat, then Connor rears back in offense. “_Excuse_ me?”

His cohort breaks into a smug grin as he bundles the ice pack back together. “Let’s see—serious, silent one with a beard,” he nods to Connor, before gesturing to himself, “dashing, charming one who knows how to throw a great party. Basic math, really.”

Connor really hopes his expression conveys _exactly_ how deranged he finds his lookalike. “Has anyone checked you for a concussion?”

“Oh, yeah, you can confer with Tony the Tiger over here,” his counterpart snarks, motioning to the empty space on Connor’s right. “He came in just before you, gave me a clean bill of health outside of the black eye. I’m doing just _grrrrrrrreat_!” He takes a sip from the glass of water in front of him, then lifts the ice pack back to his face. “And you’re straying off-subject.”

Connor drops heavily onto the seat across the table, aggravation slowly bubbling up in his chest. “I wasn’t even aware we were _on_-subject, with the way you’re just… cracking _jokes_. I’ve spent years not knowing anything concrete about how I ended up with my presumed family instead of my blood family, and the very first lead I get is with someone who can’t take these things seriously!” He runs his fingers through his hair in exasperation, face turning down towards the table. “I don’t even know if we’re actually _twins_, or if this is just pure coincidence, two doppelgängers running into each other.”

There’s nothing but silence from the other side of the booth, and for a second Connor feels a pang of regret spark in his chest. Maybe he was a little too short, pushed too hard, and soured things before any connection could form organically.

“February 1, 1985.”

It’s quiet—not quite whispered, but much more solemn than the lighthearted quips—and Connor chances a glance up from the table. His double holds his gaze with the one visible eye, though Connor feels its heaviness as if both were open.

“I was born at Starling General Hospital into… well, let’s just say one of the _wealthier_ families in the area. And apparently, I wasn’t alone.” He shrugs, turning his attention back to his water glass. “At least, for a few hours I wasn’t. Not that anyone actually talked about it, but I knew from a young age that I was the only one out of two to survive beyond the day.

“And here’s the real kicker,” he tacks on, the faintest whiff of acid in his tone. “_Thomas _means_ ‘twin’_. I’ve always found that kind of… morbid. But knowing Dad, I’m not surprised.”

Connor swallows dryly at the confession, thoughts flying faster than he can keep up with. It’s almost too much, going from the absolute nothing he knew of his origins besides test results proving he isn’t his parents’ child to finding a near-mirror image whose details match the few things Connor knows for certain.

A brother. He has a _twin_ brother, and he’s seated right across from Connor, here in this dingy little Guadalajara bar.

“It’s a long trip from Starling City just to get in a bar fight,” Connor chances, dropping his hands from his hair and draping them across his arms on the table.

His twin—_Thomas_ (Tommy, maybe?)—just counters that with a raised eyebrow. “What, you think I just go around trying to give people reasons to punch me?”

Connor shrugs. “You tell me.”

That draws out a huffed laugh. “Alright then, evil twin. Let’s do things your way.”

**. . .**

It takes some work—having to route through his network of mentors and professors and their colleagues to find someone who’d run the samples with no questions asked—but within a few days, Connor has the final confirmation he needs.

_The DNA is a match._

And it’s the first piece to rebuilding his life and knowing who he truly is, after a similar sheet of paper sent him spiraling out of orbit years ago. It’s written confirmation that he was never meant to be a Rhodes—that genetically, he’s been a Merlyn all along.

Not that anyone outside of the twins will ever know that, though. Tommy had made clear that, while Malcolm was hardly present enough to consider their relationship anything resembling “close,” he did keep a close eye on the family name and reputation. Even if they never outright told Malcolm that, in fact, his other son survived—Tommy had been visibly uncomfortable with that, and Connor could relate well enough with long-decayed connection his fa-…_Cornelius_—there was still a chance that he could find out thanks to some dedicated gossip rags.

Anyone else they might have cared to tell were gone, so just the two of them keeping a secret was the best course of action.

Working to temper his emotions—the joy of knowing that he definitively has a blood brother, a _twin_; the sense of wholeness it grants him—Connor turns to the computer monitor to hit Send on the email, passing the good, officially confirmed news off to Tommy.

It takes less than a minute for Tommy to shoot back what has to be the gaudiest e-card known to man, all neon and sparkles cheering that “It’s Twins!!!”

* * *

> ** _Guadalajara, February 2009_ **

“You ever wonder which one of us is older?”

Connor narrows his eyes in suspicion across the table, taking in the impish glint in Tommy’s eyes. “Is this an actual question, or do you know the answer and just want to see if I guess wrong?”

“Just curious,” his twin responds a little too nonchalantly, his eyes drifting down to consult his menu but still keeping a bead on Connor’s face.

Connor’s schedule and Malcolm’s current inattentiveness to Tommy’s activities (and usage of the private jet) had thankfully allowed them to reunite to celebrate their first birthday together since the original day. They’d made the most of the weekend, exploring the historic downtown, introducing Tommy to a few of Connor’s med school friends, and culminating with dinner at a nicer establishment than the one in which they’d first met.

They’d be back there soon enough, to toast to the first anniversary of their reunion in a few months’ time. Hopefully _without_ any injuries this time.

Drawn back to the question at hand, Connor sighs and flips up his own menu to give the impression of disinterest in the topic of conversation. “Does it really even matter? No matter my birth certificate, we were still born on the same day.”

He chances a glance over the top of the menu a moment later, only to catch Tommy with a smug grin spread across his face.

“You’re just saying that because you think _you’re_ the older twin and don’t want to admit it in case you’re wrong.”

Connor sputters in indignation. “So what if I’m wrong? We’re talking mere minutes of a difference here—that’s not going help your maturity level.”

Tommy pauses mid-sip of his water, before pointing at Connor in warning with his free hand. “You take that back.”

“My point stands.”

There’s a moment of silence where Connor fears his barbs hit harder than the intended playful banter, or were maybe just a little too similar to what joking around with Oliver Queen was like (_close as brothers_, Tommy once told him).

The concern dissipates before he can do anything, as the smile returns to Tommy’s face and he leans back in his seat.

“You say that now, but that’s going to be your ‘proof’ of how you knew you were the older one, isn’t it? In the hypothetical scenario where you _are_, of course, since you won’t have the satisfaction in _this_ reality.”

The evening passes with two freshly-minted 24-year-olds squabbling over a small technicality like children a fraction of their age, and yet, it’s definitively one of the best birthdays Connor has ever had.

* * *

> ** _Gotham City, October 2009_ **

It’s been a few months since he moved from Guadalajara to Gotham, but Connor still hasn’t found the right rhythm of using his days off to their full extent.

To be fair, Gotham is hardly a welcoming place, and while that unfortunate fact has been… _valuable_ to Connor’s learning experience as Gotham Memorial’s latest trauma surgery resident, it leaves much to be desired in terms of risk-free nightlife. 

As such, Connor has taken to using his days off to handle his to-do list and maybe sneak a meal at the greasy spoon diner down the street that serves the _best_ curly fries, or catch up on his DVR recordings. Hardly the reckless life he lived not so long ago—and certainly not that of the slick businessman Cornelius was raising him to be—but whatever happens outside the ER is secondary to the good he can do with his career.

That last thought is thrown into question, though, when Connor finally staggers his way up nine flights of stairs (the fickle-minded elevator was taking too long, and he could use the leg work in addition to the arm weights he’s dealing with in the form of his grocery bags) and finds Tommy staring intently at his apartment door, as if he’ll psychically turn the lock.

“You know, you could have just gone to Mrs. Patterson and told her ‘I’ locked ‘myself’ out,” Connor says by way of greeting. “She’s a great landlady, but ever since that detached retina she hasn’t had the sharpest eyes. She won’t even notice your clean-shaven baby face.”

A rock settles in Connor’s stomach the second the jibe fails to get a rise out of Tommy, whether through a flat laugh or a snarky comment of his own. Seeing his face—all swollen eyes and crestfallen expression—as Tommy finally takes note of Connor’s presence increases the weight tenfold.

Connor hastily shuffles the bags in his arms to extricate his keys and get the two of them inside as soon as possible. The top-heaviest one slides in a concerning way (aw, no, is that the one with the eggs?), tilting ever-so-slightly over the crook of his arm, until…

A new set of hands comes up and carefully eases the paper bag out of Connor’s grasp. Tommy nods in acknowledgement, awareness slowly returning to his eyes, but not enough to overcome the raw misery.

Connor’s hands—normally so steady and precise when holding a patient’s life—move jerkily to undo the deadbolt, and his foot follows through with a forceful kick to free the moisture-swelled door from its tight fit within the frame. It springs open none-too-gracefully, and Connor nudges his brother across the threshold before the door even finishes its arc.

The bags go haphazardly in the fridge—Connor’ll properly sort out the items that don’t need to be kept cool later on—and Tommy is promptly directed to the couch, an unspoken order with which he just as silently complies.

“What happened?” Connor finally asks as he crosses into the living room, the question blunt but not demanding.

Tommy forces out a hoarse laugh at that—the first noise he’s made since his arrival. “Nice bedside manner, Dr. Rhodes. You like this with all your patients, or do I get the sibling special treatment?”

“Not technically Dr. Rhodes today,” Connor corrects, taking a seat on the opposite arm of the couch. Doing so is hardly proper etiquette and generates unnecessary wear-and-tear on the furniture, but some things are more important. “And would you have told me what’s wrong if I hadn’t asked directly?”

Tommy’s gaze shifts even farther from Connor’s meaningful stare, and a hand slips up to scrub the lower half of his face in clear confirmation of the deduction.

So Connor keeps pressing. “I’m just saying, you didn’t call or message me, you just showed up in Gotham directly. There must be some reason…”

“They hacked his email,” Tommy finally bursts, hand dropping from his face and into a fist in his lap. “They were anticipating that someone would be monitoring the activity of a long-dormant account, and be hopeful, desperate… _stupid_ enough to fly to the other side of the world to bring a dead man back home.”

Connor immediately straightens on his perch. He should have seen this. Nothing could leave Tommy_ this_ distraught like some perversion of Oliver Queen’s memory.

“The guy who took me, he…” Tommy’s throat visibly tightens as his head drops almost parallel to the floor, “…he said it was only about the money—draw in one of the remaining Queens, ransom them off until QC pays up. But I can’t help but feel like the fact that it was _me_ who came all the way to Hong Kong on such baseless evidence… it was the universe forcing me to accept that he’s _actually gone_.”

He laughs around a strangled sob. “If someone who kidnaps me for ransom can say so confidently enough, then maybe it’s time I admit that Oliver Queen is dea-...”

“How would he know?” Connor snaps—maybe a little too forcefully, but _damn him_ if he lets his brother surrender that bit of hope he’s carefully harbored for the last two years so easily. “How can someone who abducts people for money know what _really_ happened? The only way he could know for certain would be if he was somehow there when the ship went down, and I find that hard to believe.”

If Tommy is at all taken aback by Connor’s harsh tone, it’s tempered by the faintest glimmer of hope, renewing as this new perspective unfolds. 

“My job is to find a diagnosis and treat people accordingly,” Connor presses on. “If it looks like a patient’s arm is bleeding and everyone I consult assures me that that’s the only source of blood loss, but the patient continues to exhibit symptoms even when they’ve been properly bandaged, I’m not going to just keep treating the arm and hope that solves everything. I’m going to take a closer look, see if they’re bleeding anywhere else—maybe even internally.”

He finally slides off of the arm and onto the couch proper, placing a firm hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “You thought you found what you were looking for, but the tests came back negative. You’re not just going to believe the patient’s spouse who just looked up symptoms online, or some hack who held you captive. You’re going to consult the evidence again and _find another answer_.”

Connor shrugs. “So the email was a bust. Maybe Oliver’s somewhere without reliable access to outside communication—stranded on a remote island, maybe?”

Tommy manages a slightly watery laugh at that. “He’d love that.”

“From what you’ve told me about him, I agree.”

After what seems like far too long, a smile finally returns to Tommy’s face—not one of his classic mischievous ones, but also not entirely sad. It’s more _relieved_, in a way.

“I didn’t actually decide to come here,” Tommy confesses. “Not consciously, at least. I was just so out of it after what happened that I must have told the pilot to change the flight plan because I wasn’t ready to go back to Starling without Oliver.”

“Well, I’m glad that somewhere in your subconscious, you knew that coming to see your older brother was just the remedy you needed,” Connor returns, giving Tommy a supportive clap on the shoulder.

“Navigational error, clearly. I could have sworn we were headed to Vegas, not to my delusional _younger_ brother.”

Connor’s comforting gesture evolves into a swift punch to Tommy’s shoulder at that last jibe. “You just blew your chance at a free order of curly fries.”

“Oh come _on_!”

* * *

> ** _2010_ **

**To: What’s Up Doc**

_3:05 AM PST_

conman

_3:05 AM PST_

Damsel autocorrect

_3:05 AM PST_

connorrrrrrrr

_3:05 AM PST_

pick up

_3:06 AM PST_

connor

_3:08 AM PST_

little brother

**To: Tommy**

_6:08 AM EST_

Tommy it’s 6 in the morning

**To: What’s Up Doc**

_3:09 AM PST_

_well that got your attention_

_3:09 AM PST_

have to tell you sdfokng

_3:10 AM PST_

svemthing

_3:11 AM PST_

something

_3:11 AM PST_

its important

**To: Tommy**

_6:13 AM EST_

I just got off night shift

_6:13 AM EST_

Tell me later

**To: What’s Up Doc**

_3:16 AM PST_

if i fall back asleep im going 2 forget

**To: Tommy**

_6:18 AM EST_

Leave yourself a note

_6:18 AM EST_

Please let me sleep

**To: What’s Up Doc**

_3:18 AM PST_

but i already have u here

**To: Tommy**

_6:20 AM EST_

FINE

**To: What’s Up Doc**

_3:20 AM PST_

you ever think abt what kind of animal youd be

**To: Tommy**

_6:23 AM EST_

F;LDFK

_6:23 AM EST_

ARE YOU S

_6:24 AM EST_

GOODNIGHT, TOMMY

**To: What’s Up Doc**

_3:27 AM PST_

I say you’re a killer whale

_3:27 AM PST_

because it’s an orca

_3:27 AM PST_

dr connORCA rhodes

_3:29 AM PST_

i woke myself up laughing

**To: Tommy**

_12:32 PM EST_

…

_12:32 PM EST_

Okay, that’s actually hilarious

_1:12 PM EST_

Does that make you Tommy Merman?

_1:18 PM EST_

Mernatee?

_1:23 PM EST_

Tortoise Merlyn?

**To: What’s Up Doc**

_10:24 AM PST_

man I am so glad I’M the funny twin

* * *

> ** _Starling City, September 2011_ **

“Okay, how is it that _I_—the tabloid not-so-darling—have a better grasp on discretion than you do?”

“How is this not discreet?” Connor demands, gesturing to his full ensemble as he hoists his duffel bag strap further up his shoulder.

Tommy flicks his sunglasses—noticeably more expensive than Connor’s (and probably equal to the cost of one tire on the sports car behind him)—down his nose and gives Connor a pointed look. “Even if the shades and a ball cap didn’t already scream ‘oh ho ho, I have something to hide’, having the nerve to wear _that_,” he jabs a finger at the embroidered ‘C’ on the front of the hat, “in Rockets territory is chum in the water. Not even I can save your soul from raving MLB fans.”

Connor yanks the Cubs hat off his head and shoves it into Tommy’s chest. “Send me a list of clandestine fashion do’s and don’ts next time, if you’re going to be so particular.”

“I’m hardly particular. You just have no concept of how to blend in when you have a face not quite as gorgeous as mine.”

Connor just grumbles at that, making a rude hand motion at his brother as he flings his bag in the backseat. He’s running on too little sleep and nowhere near recovered from six hours on a plane to deal with this.

“Ooh, somebody’s cranky,” Tommy singsongs, pushing off the car and swinging around to the driver’s side. “You know, you could have taken a later flight—Thursday ones shouldn’t be too packed. Besides, most of the fun around here doesn’t happen until the sun goes down.”

“ ‘s fine,” Connor slurs around a yawn. He flops down in the passenger seat and gratefully accepts the proffered to-go cup of coffee. “Wanted to maximize the time I have for this trip.”

Tommy bobs his head in acceptance. “Fair enough.” He promptly throws the gearshift into D, and they zip out of the Arrivals bay of the Starling City Airport.

Connor never expected to come (or would that be return?) to this city at any point in his life. Before, he simply hadn’t had much of an interest, considering it just another big city, even if he happened to be born in it. After reuniting with Tommy, the barrier was less about indifference and more in terms of caution. If they were going to keep the fact that there was another living Merlyn son under wraps, then Starling City was the last place both of them should be at the same time.

But Tommy hadn’t thought it fair that his brother was under an unofficial exile from the city, and decided to take the risk in inviting (and then wheedling, cajoling…) Connor to make a weekend trip.

Thankfully, Malcolm was away from the city again, preoccupied elsewhere with Merlyn Global negotiations—not that it would have posed a major challenge, given that Tommy had his own place and only ever earned Malcolm’s attention if he’d disappointed his father, but it was still a precaution best taken. The only concern left, then, was to avoid anything that might throw the twins into the spotlight.

A guideline Tommy doesn’t seem to understand, given his current plan for the evening:

“Look, it’s a small bar on the other side of town—not a shoddy old place, but also not one that’ll draw a huge crowd. Only been there a couple times myself and no one batted an eye. Plus, tonight most people are going to be too sloshed to put two-and-two together when we come rolling up, because it’s karao-…”

Connor glowers, driving his elbow into Tommy’s ribs. “I _knew_ it. That’s a definite ‘no’ to that idea." 

“Hey!” Tommy yelps, narrowly avoiding swerving into the beat-up minivan in the next lane as he rubs his side. Upon righting their course, he glances over with a pout. “Aw, _seriously_? We had fun the last time we did it.”

“Don’t be projecting your enjoyment on me. There’s already one video out there of me humiliating myself with a karaoke machine; I don’t need any more.”

“It’s not like anyone is going to _see_ that video, at least not any time soon,” Tommy protests, but the dramatic sigh that follows signals that he’s dropped the matter. “_Fine_, Dr. Buzzkill. What do _you_ want to do?”

Connor opens his mouth to reply, but the sudden rumbling of his stomach interrupts.

“…Maybe a weird thing to ask at this time of day, but I could really go for a burger right now.”

Given the manic look that rises in Tommy’s eyes (and the abrupt left turn off the main road), that’s an appropriate answer. “Oh, _hell yes_.”

**. . .**

Even with all the care they put into keeping on the down-low, in the end they do have to tell _some_ people.

The waitress at the Big Belly Burger does seem to recognize that infamous party boy Tommy Merlyn is one of her two identical first customers, but has the courtesy not to say anything. She also, upon overhearing their continued debate over how to spend Connor’s trip, suggest the Starling City Aquarium via a note across the top of their receipt, and while it’s a seemingly odd choice, it’s a purely fun one with which both brothers agree.

(They end up catching an aquatic show, and while Tommy vehemently denies crying when some twenty adorable penguins come waddling out, Connor has visual evidence to the contrary.)

Tommy hedges for a long while on whether or not to swing by a pro-bono law office on the edge of town, but eventually changes course with great reluctance. While Connor is somewhat disappointed to miss the opportunity to meet the illustrious Laurel Lance after Tommy has gushed about her many a time, the way Tommy’s shoulders curl ever-so-slightly inwards definitively drops the subject.

Introducing his twin brother—who’s arguably more successful and doesn’t have quite as colorful a past—to the woman he loves but with whom he holds only a tenuous romantic relationship would understandably make Tommy a bit insecure.

Meeting Oliver Queen—rather, the headstone marking his vacant grave—on the other hand, goes a bit awry.

No one comes out to greet them when the brothers pull up the drive to Queen Manor on Friday morning, but the teen girl facing the grave marker they seek confirms that they’re not the only ones on the property.

She must hear the brush of grass as they approach, as she lolls her head back in annoyance. “Honestly, are you helicopter-parenting me now? Can’t even trust me to just visit my own bro-...”

Her head turns fully towards them, and her entire body goes pin-straight at the sight of Connor.

“Hey, Speedy,” Tommy starts placatingly. “Didn’t expect to find you here.”

The girl scoffs, lazily making a 180 so she’s facing the twins before crossing her arms in defiance. “Oh yeah, it’s not like I don’t regularly come out to speak to my dad and brother. Such surprising behavior.”

The sass earns her a raised eyebrow and lips drawn in displeasure. “During school hours, it is.”

“Needed a personal day,” she replies airily, waving off the concern. “And it’s not like _you_ have any room to talk.”

Tommy’s jaw twitches at that, a clear admission of the truth to that statement, and the guilt over his best friend’s sister following his example.

At his silence, she changes the subject. “Looks like I’m not the one who has anything to explain,” she says, rocking back on her heels as she gives Connor a pointed stare. It’s sharp, oh-so-full of anger and pain, that it almost makes him stagger back at the familiarity.

It wasn’t long ago that he, too, was a rebellious, grieving teenager, leveling the same look at the mirror and anyone who crossed him.

Tommy hesitantly glances between the two, sensing the tension. “Thea, this is Connor,” he introduces carefully. “He’s… well, he’s my long-lost twin.”

The verbal confession drops the temperature of the late autumn breeze a few more degrees, as a catalog of emotions cycles across Thea’s face. 

“You have a secret brother,” she starts, voice level but strained. “And you just… never told anyone.”

“There was a switch,” Connor cuts in before he can think better of it. "We only found each other a few years ago—we didn’t even _know_ the other existed.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Connor catches Tommy bring his fist to his lips in a cringe, and his stomach bottoms out in dread. If his brother—reigning king of foot-in-mouth—regrets those seemingly innocuous words, then Connor’s _really_ stepped in it.

The way Thea freezes completely, though, tells him that he shouldn’t even try scraping it off and just throw the damn shoes away _immediately_.

“You didn’t even know your brother was alive, and you just miraculously got him back,” she summarizes icily. “Wonder what _that’s_ like.”

On that note, Thea snaps away from them and heads back up to the house, not even sparing them another glance.

Connor brings a hand to his head, running tense fingers through his hair in shame. “I should have handled that better. I _know_ what it’s like, and I only made things worse.”

Tommy reaches an arm around Connor’s back to rest a hand on his shoulder in solidarity. “I’m not going to say you’re wrong, but, as Thea likes to remind me, she’s not our little sister. I don’t think this is something we have the power to fix.”

It hurts, knowing that even Dr. Rhodes can’t heal some wounds, but Connor gets it. Remorsefully, he looks up at Queen Manor looming over them, casting a silent apology and concern for the hurting girl within its walls.

The glimpse of a shifting curtain on the upper floor gives Connor hope that the message is received.

** . . .**

They save the most important person for last, the morning before Connor flies back out to Gotham.

“I can’t remember if she ever said she had a favorite flower,” Tommy confesses, faint remorse lacing the words. “I usually try to get a mixture of everything the florist has to offer, so whatever it is will be in there for sure.”

Connor nods appraisingly at the blooming bundle in his arms, identical to the one in Tommy’s. The sheer abundance almost makes him wonder if Tommy depleted the shop’s inventory in getting these made up, but it’s a wry question best left unspoken. Their recipient is most deserving of a veritable garden.

Seeing the _Rebecca Merlyn_ etched out in stone before them sends Connor’s mind into a corkscrew, reality gradually reshaping around the fact that this is _his mother_, his and Tommy’s. But just like with Elizabeth Rhodes, there is only a cold stone reception to acknowledge the presence of her children.

The two of them move as a unit to place the bouquets before the headstone, each going on a diagonal on opposite sides to have their stems cross near the bottom. The symmetry is almost reminiscent of a coat of arms, drawn up to honor and protect the grave.

Any words Connor might care to say fail before they can fully form. How on earth can he speak to the memory of his birth mother, who died never knowing that her second son lived? A son who hardly feels like he can call himself that, not when he’s years-estranged from the family that raised him yet still thinks of a different, sorely-missed woman as _Mom_? 

Connor and Tommy are in each other’s lives not simply because of blood, but because they _chose_ to be. He has no right to decide that he matters to the woman memorialized before him.

In any other situation, Tommy would have the words to break the quiet for both of them. Yet he doesn’t share them, leaving both brothers as silent as the grave in whose presence they stand.

* * *

> ** _2012-2013_ **

The discovery of Oliver Queen’s survival—after five years stranded on a remote island without reliable access to outside communication (a fact which Connor did not expect to be so on-the-nose in predicting)—changes things.

It’s not necessarily for the worst. Sure, Tommy—overwhelmed by the joy of getting his best friend back from the dead—backslides a little into his old ways at first, with talk of loud parties and freely spending his trust fund. But it’s not Connor’s place to judge his brother, or deny him the miracle of seeing not one, but two brothers thought long-lost returned to him.

It becomes a bit of a struggle to maintain impartiality when Connor actually gets to meet Queen.

Their only face-to-face interaction is over a video call that Tommy dials up one evening, from what must be the inside of Queen Manor. He looks so thrilled by the prospect of the two meeting that Connor just doesn’t have the heart to share what he _really_ thinks of Oliver Queen, and never will.

The call only ends up lasting a few minutes, as partway through Queen excuses himself to attend to other matters, but in that time Connor learns all he needs.

It’s not the devil-may-care attitude that gets the tabloids raving that bothers Connor—that side of Queen isn’t present for the call, much like Tommy’s playboy public face isn’t the brother he knows. At most, Queen is a little too blasé for a longtime castaway, and what some might consider charmingly insincere, but on the whole he’s friendly in the face of meeting his best friend’s secret brother.

But there’s just something that gets Connor’s skin crawling and has him questioning how on earth his brother can be friends with this man. The wrongness sets in almost right away, but it takes a bit longer to identify the exact source of the feeling.

It’s the utter _falsity_ of the encounter—the way Queen cheerily greets Connor, but his eyes scrutinize every inch of his face in distrust; the ease in which he slips back into the role of a social being, heedless of the years he supposedly spent in isolation. It’s like Queen is trying his hardest to appear as shallow, as carefree, as… _harmless_ as he can, with none the wiser to his act.

Except Connor.

It both angers and terrifies him that this man his brother trusts and loves with all his heart, ever since childhood, is keeping a secret so destructive (whatever it may be) that he needs to hide it behind the persona of who he used to be.

Yet Connor says nothing of his concerns to Tommy. It’s possible that he already knows what’s going on and is safe, and Queen is just on the defensive at meeting someone he has yet to determine if he can trust. Or perhaps Tommy doesn’t know, and Connor’s suspicion would force him to choose between brothers.

That's just not something he could do.

**. . .**

Life continues to turn on its head.

Malcolm cuts Tommy off, a fact which Connor doesn’t learn until his brother confesses that he’s moved in with Laurel and is going into business with Queen to open Starling City’s newest hot nightclub. While it’s a little discouraging to be excluded from the loop and left to hear word after the fact, Connor is just glad that Tommy is making the most of what could have been a major problem, and is frankly happier for it. 

(It’s probably a better way of handling father-son conflicts than accusing his father of being the one to switch him at birth, blowing off the family business, and running to Mexico for med school, so Connor has to commend his brother for that.)

On Christmas morning, Connor finally meets Laurel over a video chat that goes much smoother than the one with Queen. They get along immediately—Laurel tells Connor a bit about CNRI and picks his brain for some medical references that may come in handy for future cases, while the two of them tag-team to tease Tommy with whatever embarrassing stories they can think of. Yet despite all of this, it’s clear that the twin who still has her eyes and heart is Tommy, proof against the fear he once had over the two meeting.

If anything, the look Laurel gives Connor is heavy-hearted, and he remembers: she’s the only one who didn’t regain a sibling with Queen’s return to society. 

But almost as soon as Tommy’s life rights itself (and Connor considers the potential of having Laurel as a sister-in-law), the weeks after the twins’ birthday bring an ocean of chaos.

It starts when Tommy hesitates when mentioning Queen, for reasons he won’t share. The next thing Connor knows, that friendship—brotherhood—has decayed entirely. And to top it all off, Tommy’s relationship with Laurel torpedoes, with the same lack of explanation, rounding out what has to be the worst two months he’s had in a long time.

“What is going _on_ with you?” Connor snaps the second Tommy picks up. He’s so far past caring that it’s 2 AM in Starling, or that he’s coming off one of the crazier night shifts he’s had in a while—he is _not_ going to let either of them rest until he gets answers about that last voicemail.

Tommy just sighs. It sounds _tired_, and not just in the sleepy sense of the word. _“I just can’t do it anymore,”_ he confesses. _“All the lies, and the secrets, and the history. I know when I’m not actually needed.”_

Connor flips on the floor lamp and eases himself onto the comfortably-worn couch, concerned. “Who is this about?”

_“Neither of them, both of them, I don’t know!”_ Tommy grinds out. _“I’m just a third wheel, so I decided to take myself out of the equation. And apparently I need to renew my ‘person to be trusted’ license every five years, otherwise I won’t be officially recognized through my actions alone.”_

Connor can almost taste the bitterness of the words as if they were his own. Before he can ask for any other details, Tommy swerves in a different direction.

_“I don’t want to get into this,” _he says, flat-out refusing Connor’s unspoken question. _“But I’m still glad you called—there was something I’ve been thinking of bringing up these last few days.”_

Connor hums an affirmative, even as an uneasy feeling—at the dismissal of discussing the loss of everything Tommy worked and bettered himself for, at the impending subject, at this new turn his brother’s life has taken—begins to settle in his stomach.

_“Great,” _Tommy starts, then hesitates, voice cutting out before he can speak a full syllable. Heaving a deep breath, he tries again: _“I think we should tell Dad.”_

Connor’s stomach drops out completely.

He knew Tommy had gone to Malcolm for a job after resigning from Queen’s nightclub, but he was under the impression that it had been more of a last-resort move. Even if their relationship had been improving in some respect—near-death experiences would do that—Tommy hardly mentioned Malcolm enough to suggest that any father-son bond or loyalty had reformed.

Tommy takes Connor’s silence for the uncertainty it is, and sighs. _“Look, I get that this goes against everything I’ve said in the past, but you and Dad are all I have left, and I should have realized that sooner. I think he deserves to know that there’s another piece of Mom out there, now that he’s closed the clinic.” _He pauses. _“And don’t you want a second chance at having a father, since you have nothing to do with Cornelius?”_

That was a low blow, but a direct hit nonetheless.

Connor _had_ let Tommy’s judgement guide him when it came to Malcolm and the decision not to tell him anything, seeing as he didn't actually know the man. If Tommy was changing his mind, finding their father fit for the truth, then Connor doesn’t really have grounds to think otherwise, does he?

“What did you have in mind?”

_“Oh,”_ Tommy murmurs, as if the ready agreement is a surprise, but he quickly recovers. _“Well, do you have any vacation time coming up?”_

Connor considers for a moment, tossing his head back as he swings his legs up onto the couch. “I think the earliest I can request off while giving enough warning is just after Memorial Day.”

_“That works,” _Tommy confirms, the cheer returning to his voice at the prospect of reuniting his living family. _“I won’t say anything until shortly before, if for any reason we decide not to go through. But Con, I…” _He swallows. _“Thank you.”_

“Of course,” Connor responds, before ending the call and dropping his cell on the coffee table.

_Well, at least that opens Starling City General as a fellowship opportunity,_ he thinks absently as his eyes drift closed and he passes out cold.

* * *

> ** _Gotham City, May 2013_ **

It’s been something of a hectic day at Gotham Memorial, with back-to-back surgeries keeping Connor securely tucked away in the OR without contact to the outside world. He’s hardly complaining, though—blissful ignorance to stressors beyond the hospital doors makes it all the easier to focus on the critical, life-saving tasks at hand.

So at first, when the discomfort creeps into his chest the moment he crosses the threshold from the OR, he passes it off as exhaustion. All of the patients he’s worked with today are recovering without any further complications, so it’s only fair that Connor do the same, now that his shift’s come to a close at last.

Except the feeling swells as he glides out of the locker room and into the heart of the ED, causing Connor’s steps to falter in confusion. What once could have been mistaken for lingering tension now throbs like an open wound, as if pulsing out lifeblood Connor is unaware he’s losing.

His hand comes away clean when he hastily brings it to the source of the sensation—just to the left of his heart—but that doesn’t stop the fuzziness seeping into Connor’s consciousness. He staggers a few feet to slump against the nurses’ station, much to the concern of the nurses on duty, and blinks a few times as lethargy starts to snake its way through his entire being.

For a split second, Connor gets a flash of _another place_—flaming ruins and twisted metal—before the TV above the desk draws his attention and firmly yanks him back to reality.

It’s the local news station, except whatever stories were on the night’s docket have been preempted by breaking coverage from _Starling City_. Shaky camera footage gives him a glimpse at what must be hell on Earth, with streets and buildings quaking and collapsing and being swallowed into a pit that—if the headline referencing some sort of “Undertaking” is to be believed—was _intentionally _torn open.

One of the nurses, Tricia, edges closer, lips moving soundlessly in concern, but Connor is wholly consumed by the urgency of getting his phone out of his jacket pocket, because it’s _Starling_ and _Tommy_ and his skin is radiating with a heat that belongs more to the inferno in his vision than the sterile ED. 

It’s a more arduous task than need be to extricate the device, and he tumbles thumb over fingers to unlock it and bring up the home screen, but there’s a message from Tommy, right there in his notifications, see! It’s from twelve minutes ago, which means Tommy, his brother, his _twin_ is safe, just _fine_, despite the pandemonium raging through the city streets.

But Connor—_Dr. Rhodes_—should (does) know that twelve minutes is a long time, and a grave situation can easily swing in one direction or the other in a heartbeat. Or the sudden lack thereof.

His thumb shakily hovers over the voicemail Tommy left twelve (now thirteen) minutes earlier, moving slower than the breath resounding in Connor’s ears.

Are those breaths even his? It’s almost like someone _else _is…

…is…

The world explodes in a vicious kaleidoscope of _agony_ as the sensation in Connor’s chest flares, his head snapping back at the shock. He grits his teeth to keep from crying out as it solidifies into something sharp and invasive, like he’s been stabbed—_impaled_. His hands flounder in front of him, grasping for a phantom weapon shoved into his chest cavity as a metallic tang fills his mouth, smothering the air in his throat.

Tricia rushes into his line of sight again, this time with Dr. Olsen and another nurse in tow—have they come to remove the weapon (_rebar_, he can see now) that Connor can’t seem to touch? He parts his lips, surely wet with blood, to address them... 

_Thank you._

Those words don’t pass his lips, but Connor hears them all the same, and in his own voice (or one very, _very_ similar). His brow creases in a frown of confusion, which only deepens when the excruciating fire in his chest extinguishes without a hint that it’d even burned.

Clarity returns to his senses as the haze in Connor’s eyes dissipates and Dr. Olsen’s concerned words reach his ears, with the taste of blood washed clean from his mouth and…

_Oh. _

The gaping chasm in his soul, cleaved the moment… the moment death stole Tommy Merlyn away.

The realization sends Connor to his knees with an inhuman half-scream he can no longer hold back. One hand manages to grab his phone on the way down, which he clutches like a lifeline—the very last connection to the brother he’d known for an unfairly fleeting time—while his free hand comes up to conceal his face in a last-ditch effort to maintain his composure. 

But how can he—why _should _he? Even after five years of conscious awareness that he was one, Connor never bought into the whole “twin telepathy” idea, finding that the limited cases and the science behind it failed to present valid evidence. And yet he _knew_, even better than his Hippocratic oath: knew_ exactly_ what that newfound hole in his soul meant; knew that the torment of the last few minutes echoed Tommy’s final moments, endured thousands of miles away in the wreckage of a Starling City building. The trauma is both inexplicable and definite grounds for a breakdown.

Which, granted, probably shouldn’t be happening in the middle of the emergency room where he works, but the gasping sobs come heedless of the locale, because Tommy, his brother, his _twin_ is dead—_murdered_, however indirectly, by someone enacting a sadistic plan.

Just this once, Connor lets grief supersede rational thought, and feels himself sink into its depths.

**. . .**

Somehow, it gets even worse from there.

Connor’s memory of the rest of the night is nonexistent, but some way or another Dr. Olsen discerned that Connor had sustained a great personal loss (to put it mildly) and fast-tracked him onto bereavement leave. She’d also passed along information for a respected—and unaffiliated—grief counselor, strongly recommending that Connor look into following up.

Right. He’d made quite a scene, hadn’t he? Even if he’d been off-shift and there thankfully hadn’t been any patients in the immediate area, it still won’t cast a good light on the ED if their trauma resident goes back to work without any treatment for his _own_ trauma. With about a year left in his residency—and if he has any intentions of staying on afterwards—Connor’s behavior will have to be in top form when he returns.

The days pass in a fog, not too dissimilar from those following his mother’s death. Connor moves about his apartment like a ghost (is that what Tommy is now, or has he found the peace he deserves?), barely doing more than sleeping and staying just hydrated enough to get by.

Oh, and filling in the blanks of Tommy’s final night on Earth.

It’s not like he intends to do so, at least not quite yet, but when the Undertaking is all any news channel or site or paper can cover, there’s only so much Connor can do to evade it.

Any effort to do so comes to a screeching halt when he sees the name _Malcolm Merlyn _in direct association to the event.

He’d been in surgery, away from his phone and the hospital TVs and anyone who might have been up-to-date on the news, almost all day on the day of the Undertaking; as such, he’d missed Moira Queen’s press conference, complete with her confession regarding her role in the initiative and the man behind the curtain of it all.

_Malcolm. Merlyn._

Tommy’s father—_Connor’s _father, if in genetics only—had killed his only (publicly known) living son.

Connor punches the bathroom mirror while processing that revelation. The blood burns hot as it snakes down his knuckles and arm, a bright red thread tying him back to both the man directly responsible for ending 503 lives and one of those same lost souls.

And to think that in a few weeks' time he would have willingly anchored that thread, revealing himself and his survival to Malcolm after 28 long years—acknowledging, for once, that he _is_ a Merlyn.

That’s one admission to which Connor will never again give voice. Malcolm had blackened the name beyond redemption, and all honor had died with Tommy. This truth will follow Connor to his own grave, free from the judgment and scorn of others.

After all, Connor may be a Merlyn, but he is _not_ his father.

* * *

> ** _Riyadh, May 2014_ **

_“Hey, Connor… _

_“I- I’m not sure how much about this has made it outside of Starling, or if you’ve had the chance to find out, but Dad… shit, I can’t…”_

Scuffle, a frantic breath in.

_“Listen, I just wanted to let you know that I’m okay. I’m safe. But I… CNRI is right in the blast radius, and I haven’t been able to reach Laurel. And maybe she’s just ignoring my calls, and she’s completely fine, but I- I just can’t take that risk. Not after…”_

A pained gasp, escaping as if through a pinched balloon.

_“He had a voicemail from Mom. Her dying words. I confronted him in his office this morning and he played it and- and it was like he had it _memorized_, down to every breath. He probably did, probably listened to it over and over and over for justification for what he was planning to do—what he _did_._

_“And it’s running in _my_ head, except it keeps sounding less and less like Mom and more and more like Laurel, and I can’t…”_

Utter silence.

_“I can’t fix this. But I also can’t just not do anything. Not anymore. Never again._

_“I’m going to go get Laurel, no matter what, and I’m going to tell her, like I should have a long time ago. Life’s too short, right?_

_“And listen, Connor, I just want to say…”_

A bone-rattling boom, a cacophony of screams.

_“…I’ll call you back in a bit, little brother. I promise.”_

The call-ending click resounds with a deafening finality against the bare walls of the apartment. Its reign of silence is short-lived, soon deposed by the violent rip of a dust storm brewing on the other side of the living area window.

Connor doesn’t move an inch—not to return to the phone’s home screen, not to break from his vigil at the kitchen table—instead keeping his gaze transfixed on the quickly vanishing Riyadh skyline. For a split second, the city catches the midday sun at just the right angle that makes it look like it’s been set ablaze, and Connor’s mind is thrown across both an ocean and time.

_One year._ One year to the day since half of Starling City’s Glades neighborhood was reduced to rubble by his blood father’s madness. Connor never saw the damage up close and in person, but his subconscious likes to paint its own interpretations across his nightmares even now.

They’re enough to keep him running—far from Gotham, far from Starling, and, most importantly, far from his brother’s grave.

But never from Tommy’s memory.

A tap of the screen, the beep of a voicemail. 

_“Hey, Connor…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially had a different, very short idea for that last section (and how to end the previous one), but then I realized I'd set myself up with a Chekhov's Gun in the Undertaking timestamp with the voicemail. And because I also love cruel, dramatic irony, we get the "Connor is _not_ his father" bit because a) Tommy's "I am my father," and b) listening to an old voicemail is very much Malcolm behavior. I would say I'm sorry, but... I'm really, really not.
> 
> The text conversation is a bit out-there in terms of the rest of the tone, but I needed more stupid sibling stuff and I already had the pun.
> 
> This story is about 90% complete (just two more scenes left and then editing), so there shouldn't be too long a wait between chapters. That said, seeing as those remaining timestamps are in the next chapter, it'll probably about a week (the day of the Med season premiere at maximum) before Part II is up, just to play it safe. After that, the remaining two chapters may be up sooner, but I'm not committing to anything yet.
> 
> In the meantime, you can catch me on Tumblr at obscure-sentimentalist.
> 
> Until next time!
> 
> NOTE 9/27/19: I miscalculated my posting timeline--sorry about that, team. RL has been maddening these last few weeks, so it's going to be a little bit longer before Chapter 2 drops. But it _will_ be here soon, and the remaining two will follow soon thereafter. Thanks for your patience!


	2. Part II: Five Stages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor moves back to Chicago. Everything is _fine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, sorry about the unexpected wait, folks. When I posted the first chapter, I figured it would be easy enough to finish up the two scenes I needed for this chapter (and the final two scenes for the story overall--I wrote this entire work out of order, writing whatever scenes came to me or caught my fancy at a given time). Too bad I completely forgot that it's the _really_ busy season at work, and that I had a few consecutive weekends with lots of plans, so I either didn't have time to pick back up or I was much too exhausted in the little free time I had to put myself through the emotional wringer that is _Old enough_.
> 
> But today I finally wrapped up the two incomplete timestamps, which means it's new chapter time! While we've gotten past the most heartwrenching timestamp, we still have a bit of a bumpy ride ahead. I _do_ promise that there's at least a potential for a happy ending at the end of road with these remaining chapters, and that--despite how things ended last chapter--Tommy is still a present character in at least one section of each chapter to come. I'm still calling this concept "Merlyn Boys" after all, not simply "Sad Rhodes-Should-Have-Been-a-Merlyn Boy and His Dead Brother." (Although there still is that...)
> 
> New tag has been added, to give you an idea of the state of things with this chapter.
> 
> Alright, we've all waited long enough: enjoy!

> _ **Chicago, November 2015** _

Chicago is… _fine_.

That might normally be an infuriatingly vague and meaningless judgement call, but in this case, “fine” is well more than Connor could have asked for after the last two years. It’s a win on-par with, say, the concept of the Cubs taking the World Series.

An even bigger one, perhaps, seeing as Chicago had long been on the top of his list of “Places Never to Return” before it was dethroned by Starling—rather, _Star_—City. This changing of the guard hardly meant that he was jumping at the chance to make it back to the Windy City, but the fellowship offer from Gaffney Chicago was one of the more appealing ones that Connor received. Eventually, it came down to whether he’d let the Rhodes family past continue to drag him down, or put his efforts towards a strong future in medicine.

The latter won out. Saving lives is by far the higher priority (particularly in the wake of the hundreds Malcolm took), and if Connor plays his cards right, “Dr. Rhodes” won’t cross anyone’s mind as synonymous with Dolan Rhodes.

It figures that his first day on the job is a literal train-wreck, with the L crash simultaneously throwing him right into the thick of things and ensuring that his introduction to the Gaffney team is anything but_ quiet_.

But it’s fine. Connor gets cleaned up (with a helping hand from Nurse Sexton—_April_—on the stitches) and straight back to work. He isn’t deaf to the murmurings about him, but at least they’re of the objectifying sort—establishing his role as new eye candy for the nurses—and not in connection to either of his surnames.

Connor is particularly relieved about that last point, seeing as he certainly hasn’t made a friend of Dr. Halstead with his current actions and heavily redacted background alone. He doesn’t even want to think about what someone from one of the rougher areas of the city would say upon learning that Connor was not only raised in one of the wealthiest families in the state, but is the blood son of the man who orchestrated a half-successful act of class genocide.

Aside from Halstead, Connor gets along fairly well with everyone else—from Dr. Charles to Dr. Manning and even to the insecure, yet so full of potential Sarah Reese. His emotional detachment in favor of commitment to the best course of treatment doesn’t go over well with some of his new coworkers, but at least it’s more of a disagreement with his methods and less vitriol over Connor as a person. It’s bound to happen in this profession, so it’s fine.

His first day at Gaffney, overall? Fine. The scotch at Molly’s, which seems to be the prime hangout in the afterhours for his coworkers? Fine. His new apartment, comfortable yet sleek yet not too opulent? Fine.

Everything’s _fine_.

And if Connor keeps telling himself that, maybe one day it’ll actually be true.

. . .

“One day” doesn’t come before Cornelius Rhodes sees fit to wedge himself back into Connor’s life.

It starts with the phone calls—incessant, and just as determinedly ignored. When that doesn’t work, Cornelius has the gall to physically show up at Gaffney, or at least loiter in the parking lot in the back of his chauffeured car until Connor comes out to confront him.

It takes all of Connor’s strength to keep his reactions as controlled as possible in the face of Cornelius’s denigrating comments. The struggle heightens when he writes off their estrangement merely as Connor’s “issues”—as if finding out that his less-than-stellar father isn’t really even his father is something that Connor can just get over in time.

Then Claire brings Russell in, and that morsel of anonymity he’d been savoring amidst the Gaffney staff vanishes much sooner than he’d expected. Now it’s common knowledge that Connor is “_that_ Rhodes,” and while the situation is not ideal, at least there are some perks.

Namely, covering the cost of Russell’s medical bills when Cornelius refuses to do so.

It’s in the aftermath of this incident that Connor decides that if Cornelius wants to have a chat so desperately, then they’re going to do so without trivializing Connor’s feelings.

Naturally, the moment Connor approaches Cornelius, the man slips smoothly into an easy smile and extends an arm as if to wrap it around Connor’s shoulders.

“It’s been a long day,” he says, the simper not showing any signs of dropping from his face. “You must be tired, saving a life like that. What do you say we go get some dinner…”

“What, and you’ll pay for it?” Connor scoffs, pointedly stepping out of Cornelius’s reach. “Won’t that send the wrong message to your employees, footing the bill for someone who’s just like family but isn’t _exactly_ so?”

That successfully wipes the expression from Cornelius’s face, though it’s accompanied by a condescending sigh that makes Connor’s blood boil. “This again? Really, Connor, I thought you would be _over_ it by now, after all that time away.”

“Finding out you were swapped at birth isn’t just a thing to ‘get over’. Contrary to your preferred methods, _Dad_, it’s not going to disappear no matter how much money is thrown at it.”

Cornelius’s eyes darken slightly at that, but he ignores the comment otherwise in favor of his own winding blow. “Regardless of blood relation or how you came to be in our care, you are still my son in every other way that matters. You are a Rhodes in name and upbringing, and you will _act_ like it.”

And it’s so hard not to break that oath he swore two years ago among broken glass and shed blood, to not retort with a biting _Yeah, and I’m a Merlyn by genetics. If you’re trying to go for nature versus nurture, your parenting hardly qualifies as the latter. _But Connor refuses to give Cornelius that leverage—the knowledge that Connor is aware of his true origins, that said origins are even grimmer thanks to Malcolm’s crimes, that being a Rhodes in name is truly the better (_safer_) option.

So Connor holds his tongue and doesn’t fight back as Cornelius shoves him back into the Official Rhodes Family box, and tries not to let his face broadcast the roiling of his stomach at… _his father’s_ smugness over the apparent complacency.

He’ll play the part to the letter, and no more. The two of them had their tensions even beyond the matter of DNA, and Connor has no intention of surrendering those. Cornelius is getting his son back in name and general vicinity only—family dinners and an actual father-son relationship aren’t part of the package.

Connor makes that abundantly clear when he turns on his heel as Cornelius’s arm comes up the second time.

But something stops him before he crosses the threshold back into the ED. It’s the question that’s burned in the back of his mind from the moment Cornelius rejected the call for help with Russell—someone who was family in every way but blood or name. It’s the very reason why Connor can’t fully let himself fall back into the charade, even if he’ll never again argue that he isn’t a Rhodes.

“If I had blood family,” he starts, and watches as Cornelius’s face falls in annoyance at the resurgence of the topic. Undeterred, the question comes: “If I had blood family, and they were in need, would you have treated them like your own too?”

It’s enough to make Cornelius pause, and Connor gets a moment of his own smug satisfaction to see the businessman—usually so quick to determine the doling out of his checkbook—falter.

The hesitation doesn’t last, and Cornelius inclines his head confidently. “If they truly meant that much to you, then _yes_, I would.” He leaves only a single beat for those words to sink in, before taking another assertive step towards Connor. “Is this a hypothetical, or is this truly the case?”

Yes, _I would_.

The confirmation still rings in Connor’s ears even as he registers the follow-up question, and he has neither the words nor control over his voice to respond.

Yes, _I would_.

He’d been so sure of the answer, or at the very least hadn’t fathomed that Cornelius would respond with a concrete affirmative—a wishy-washy response like that second question alone, maybe, or a blatant non-answer as he tries to dismiss the fact that Connor would even ask. But _this_?

It’s almost enough to make Connor wonder if it wasn’t so much a mistake of planning to tell Malcolm as it was a mistake of planning to tell _the wrong father_.

_Almost._

Because while Cornelius is currently present and trying to rebuild a relationship with his son and, frankly, _isn’t_ a mass murderer, he is cunning and condescending and will do whatever it takes to get the right people under his thumb.

And Tommy…

Tommy is still _gone_.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Connor finally replies around the choking knot in his throat, leaving his father with a haunted stare before he faces forward once again and slips through the automatic doors.

_It’s much too late for that._

* * *

> ** _Chicago, May 2016_ **

Dr. Downey passes two weeks before the third anniversary of the Undertaking, which thoroughly decimates what little composure Connor is usually able to muster around this time of year.

It’s not a complete breakdown, not like he’d suffered on the actual night of the event, and perhaps it’s not much different than his typical behavior since he arrived at Gaffney, but Connor is most certainly not _fine_.

The rest of the team gives him space when he withdraws more than usual, suspending the direct, spoken invites to Molly’s when they’ll only be turned down anyway. Halstead doesn’t seek him out unless absolutely necessary, putting every effort into avoiding any situation that might set off Connor’s near-nonexistent short fuse.

Even the impending transition to Cardiothoracic Surgery is an isolation of its own, pulling Connor from the constant rush of the ED and the people he’s known for more than half a year. Not that he was ever _truly_ part of their family, but it still feels as if he’s leaving something behind.

The self-imposed solitude and all-business attitude can hardly be considered strange behavior for Connor; if it seems more pronounced, then he just lost his mentor. Even with the grief counseling afterwards, it’s still going to take some time to get back in the swing of things.

Connor should have figured that Dr. Charles would look closer.

“Ah, Dr. Rhodes!” he greets one night as Connor is on his way out, falling in line beside him. “I was hoping to catch you.”

Connor hums a greeting in return, before slipping back into doctor mode. “What can I do for you, Dr. Charles?”

The older man—who Connor now notices is also off-shift and in his street clothes—just smiles calmly. “Just thought it’d be a nice night for a walk. I wouldn’t mind some company.”

It’s so clear where this is going, and Connor has an excuse already bubbling up his throat (because otherwise he’s going to snap something he’ll regret later), but Dr. Charles beats him to it. He doesn’t say anything, but the tilt of his head and pointed raise of his eyebrows fully conveys that this is non-negotiable and they _will _be having a nice chat.

And Connor… Connor is just too fractured, too _tired_ to make a case against that. A silent nod and arm gesture for Dr. Charles to lead the way is a clear white flag.

The late spring air indeed makes for a nice night of walking, Connor notes to himself, and so he keeps pace with Dr. Charles as they cross the parking lot and hit the sidewalk on the outskirts of the Gaffney campus. The other man doesn’t hesitate in choosing the direction in which they turn, but it’s easy to tell that he has no particular destination in mind.

No words are exchanged until they hit the first crosswalk.

“Connor, I’m not going to ask how you’re holding up, or cast myself as your shrink off the clock. It would demean us both if I did,” Dr. Charles starts. His eyes stare straight ahead at the red hand alight on the opposite side of the street, but Connor can feel the gaze on him all the same.

“But as a piece of advice from a friend? Grief doesn’t have a consistent size. It can shrink or swell over time, and without apparent reason.” The white silhouette of the Walk sign finally blinks on, and Dr. Charles steps off the curb, continuing without a beat in between. “If you know how to handle it, it’s easier to move along with the ebb and flow. But know that locking it away in a box might work when it’s on the smaller side, but even the most secure vaults will fail if their contents are bursting out.”

Their feet hit the concrete of the opposite sidewalk at last, and Connor takes their first moment of rest to reply. Dr. Charles is right—keeping Tommy’s memory under lock-and-key (just like they did Connor’s survival) will only result in all-consuming desolation, especially as even more lost patients and friends pile on top of him.

Before he can get a word out, to begin to tell the first person ever of the brother (_twin_) he’d had the honor of knowing for a brief five years—and the agony of remembering for the rest of his life—Dr. Charles turns to face Connor, effectively cutting him off once more.

“I know you value your privacy in a professional setting, and I’m not asking you to talk to me. I won’t be offended if you don’t,” he clarifies, reading Connor’s intentions for what they are. “It’s not necessarily a matter of trust, but more a matter of what you need, or would make you feel most comfortable.”

Dr. Charles offers a faint smile and begins to turn the corner, even as Connor finds his feet still firmly rooted in place. It’s clear between both that this is where they part ways for the evening, but the psychiatrist leaves Connor with a final few words. “I get that coworkers might not be the first choice, but perhaps there’s someone else you might be able to confide in.”

At that, he taps a hand lightly on Connor’s back in farewell and heads off on his new trajectory.

Almost as if the speech was the finger to tip over the first domino, Connor feels a latch pop in his soul, and a tidal wave of despair yanks him under.

. . .

By the time Connor comes back to himself, the door to which his knuckles are still raised swings open, and Claire stares at him in disbelief from the threshold.

“Connor?” she asks, voice timid and almost choked, as if she _really_ didn’t expect to see her younger brother tonight. Still, she motions for him to come into her office, allowing the door to click securely closed behind him. “What are you… did something happen?”

That alone sends a strangled sob bubbling up from Connor’s throat. The last few times he’d seen her, Claire had made it clear exactly how much he’d hurt her when he left and cut all ties to the Rhodes family, but the automatic assumption that Connor would only come to see his sister with grave news is a sucker punch.

He’d really let things get that bad, hadn’t he?

It’s almost enough to make him back out, not wanting to make this already strained relationship even worse by revealing exactly why he’s been an absentee brother, but Connor forces himself to stay put. Claire may hate him for what he’s done—if not already, then once he’s finished—but hopefully the honesty after so many lies and secrets from both the Rhodes men will count for _something_.

The silence after that smothered cry must be stretching on for a little too long, as Claire hesitantly steps forward, concern painting her expression. “Con…”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, stopping Claire in her tracks a few feet from him. Chest heaving with the sins prompting those two words, Connor scrubs a hand over the lower half of his face before they all come rushing out. His sister deserves a sincerer apology than just a litany of his actions.

“For… what?” Claire asks, confusion settling in, yet not enough to override the worry—worry for _him_, which he’s done nothing to deserve.

It’s the last bit of pressure needed to burst the dam.

“That I haven’t been the brother I should have been,” Connor confesses, voice strained as he tries to get the words out over the swell of tears. “That there are things I should have told you years ago, which would explain but by no means justify my actions.” A fresh wave hits, and Connor’s body spasms. “And I’m sorry I cut you out, when it was _never_ your fault and you were the only one who _stayed_.”

With his eyes squeezed as tight as they are against the tears, Connor doesn’t realize Claire has closed the gap between them until she pulls him into a firm hug. Her grip doesn’t waver even as the fight finally leaves Connor’s body, and is the only thing that keeps him from fully collapsing in broken sobs, carefully lowering them both to their knees instead.

“It’s okay,” comes the quiet assurance, though it sounds heavy with Claire’s own tears. “Connor, it’s okay.”

“It’s _not_,” Connor protests, struggling to raise his head from his sister’s shoulder before he completely ruins her jacket. “I found out and I was angry and I _left_, but I never told you _why_. And it shouldn’t have even mattered in the first place, because you’re still my sister, even though I’m not…”

“I know,” Claire interrupts. Her arms tighten even more in the hug, as if evolving from an attempt to comfort her younger brother and into an assurance that she’s actually there.

“But I haven’t…”

Another squeeze, effectively breaking off the words to come. “Connor, I _know_. I know we’re not blood siblings.”

Connor’s back stiffens, and Claire loosens her grip just enough for him to pull back and face her. “Did Dad…”

She shakes her head in a negative, making a swipe at her eyes as she breathes out a short laugh. “You’re not the only one allowed to have secrets.”

Connor opens his mouth to apologize once again, but Claire holds up a hand as she stands and goes to retrieve something from her desk.

“That said,” she continues, popping one of the drawers open, “I think this is one you need to hear tonight.”

Claire returns to Connor’s side—having shifted into a seated position, as he doesn’t trust his legs quite yet—and gently places a flimsy piece of paper in his hands.

It’s the top copy of one of the carbon paper receipts Dolan Rhodes uses for their more extensive services, such as fittings and personal styling. Though the ink has faded with age, Claire’s handwriting is still clear to see, detailing the purchase of two custom-fit formal suits.

Just as visible are the date—December 17, 2006—across the top of the paper, and the capital “T” and “M” amidst the otherwise illegible (yet so familiar) cursive letters of the signature.

“It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together when someone who looks like your little brother shows up in dire need of eveningwear,” Claire admits softly.

* * *

> <strike> _ **Star City, May 2016** _ </strike>

_This_, Tate thinks, is going to be a day worth remembering.

To be fair, there’s already been a pretty remarkable streak of_ good_ lately: business has been steadily improving, the Rockets are headed to the World Series, and he’s finally managed to get his best man speech _just right_.

(It only took until the day of the wedding—thirty-two minutes ago, to get nitpicky—but it’s still a win in Tate’s book.)

Cufflinks fastened and shoes meticulously polished, Tate moves on to the tie, slipping the fine silk fabric under his collar. The rich crimson glides as he steadily guides it into a Windsor knot, a practiced motion earned from decades of formal events. In a flash, the knot is comfortably secured, and Tate takes a moment to admire his handiwork.

Their prices might be astronomical, but at least Dolan Rhodes matches them with quality.

“Well this just isn’t fair,” a teasing voice whines from the threshold. “It’s my wedding—only _I _should be looking this good.”

Eyebrow raised dubiously, Tate casts a glance to the side and takes note of the new reflection in the mirror. “Thea got us _all_ ties for the occasion. If you want to complain to her about her impeccable taste, Mr. Doom ‘n Groom, I can easily turn my speech into a eulogy.”

“Oh no no _no_,” comes the laughter, ever closer. “That’s not the problem here. Just think, what will they_ say_ when the groom and the best man show up”—Tate staggers from the bump to the side and hand latching onto his chin—“wearing the same _face_?”

A beat, then Tate sags with disgust. “And you say you won Laurel over with your wit and charm. The fact that I’m subjected to the same jokes you’ve been making since the womb seems to suggest otherwise.”

Tommy gasps in mock offense at the barb, though it’s short-lived as his fingers stretch up to the corners of Tate’s mouth, tugging them down into an exaggerated frown. “Ah, see, now _that’s_ better. A very distinct difference to set the two apart.” His eyes travel up with a mischievous glint, and his free hand slowly starts to inch towards Tate’s hair. “And maybe just a little…”

The motion is denied with a calculated swat to the back of the hand—just enough to mean business, but short of anything that might ignite further brotherly roughhousing and subsequent dishevelment.

Tommy pulls back with a laugh, hands raised in surrender, before turning pensively to the brothers’ reflections in the mirror.

“Seriously, though, thank you for being here,” he says, casting a sincere glance at Tate. There’s a flash of panic, as if something about that didn’t come out right. “I mean, I didn’t expect that you’d be anywhere else, you’re _always_ here, but…”

Tate just puts a comforting arm around Tommy’s shoulders, a promise that there’s no need for apology. Dad being as absent—amongst _other_ things—as he was had a way of settling in their skin. It was part of the reason why Tate put his original career plans (he was thinking med school, maybe, in tribute to Mom) aside to assume control of Merlyn Global—not because it’s what he’d been raised and expected to do, but because there was no way he was leaving Tommy to cleanse their soiled name all alone.

The public’s fascination with twins—especially ones with such a high-profile business venture—certainly wouldn’t harm MGG’s chances at redemption, so that was another strategic move.

There’s a knock on the open door, before the visitor speaks. “I’m hardly one to talk about being fashionably late, but we’re looking at five minutes until aisle time.”

“And _that’s_ why you’re my co-best man,” Tate returns, arm still around Tommy’s shoulder as the brothers finally step away from the mirror to face the door. He extends the other arm in invitation. “Bring it in, Queen.”

Oliver breathes out a short laugh, shaking his head fondly, but slips seamlessly into the brotherly group hug. “That’s not really a thing.”

“It is for today—my executive decision as the originally-named best man. We’re not going to let our other brother languish as a second-fiddle groomsman.” Tate rolls his head towards Oliver, voice low. “I should hope you have a speech prepared as well, yeah?”

Oliver winks conspiratorially back. “I think I can pull something together.”

Tommy doesn’t say anything, for once, but the shine in his eyes and the face-splitting smile at the display are all the words he needs.

There’s a sudden blaze of light on the periphery of Tate’s vision, and the group splits to glance out the window.

“The forecast said there would be clear skies today,” Oliver murmurs, brow furrowed in confusion. “There wasn’t anything about lightning storms.”

Assuming that the activity outside can be referred to as such. The jagged yellow streaks of light fit the bill, but they move in nearly imperceptible rapid succession—_horizontally_, for that matter. And it’s a miniscule detail, but every once in a while there’s a small flash of red at the forefront of it all.

Tate steps away from the group and towards the window for a closer look, reaching out to touch the cold

marble, but Connor should hardly have expected anything different. Even without the rain, the headstone and its charge have long been devoid of warmth.

“I’m sorry it took this long,” he addresses the grave, eyes fixed on the engraved _Thomas Merlyn_ (and staunchly avoiding the post-script across the very bottom). “I… I really took a page from Malcolm’s book, didn’t I? Left the country as soon as I could, and put off coming back for as long as possible. I went back _home_ before I had enough courage to come see you.”

Rubbing a hand down his face, Connor sinks into a crouch, letting the disguise fall and reveal his shoddily cobbled-together pieces. “I’ve spent a long time trying to push everything down and focus on the things that are actually within my power, but… someone just reminded me that I’m not a bottomless vessel. One day I’m going to break or overflow, without any control over when or how to stop it, or I can start relieving the pressure and emptying a little bit out at a time. And I figured… this might be one of the better ways to start.”

Reaching for the travel-size cooler beside him, Connor pulls out two beers. One goes on the dewy grass before the headstone, while he lifts the other in salute to the carving of his brother’s name.

“Happy reunion day, Tommy.”

> _ **Star City, May 2016** _

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Dammit, Barry._
> 
> That additional 2016 section was not in my original concept, but then I remembered what happened in the Arrowverse right around that time, and I couldn't resist. So yeah, we're going to pretend that when Barry first created Flashpoint, he broke the timeline as it was even _before_ Nora's murder/rescue, which is how we ended up with Connor as Tate Merlyn and the twins actually having grown up together. And then Barry had to go and fix that timeline, so everything's back to as it (sadly) was.
> 
> (I had some trouble coming up with Connor's "real" name at first, not knowing if I should go with something similar or another 'T' name or a meaning I really liked. But then I saw that one of the meanings for Tate was "cheerful," and I think we've well established that I'm much too cruel and capricious a writer to pass up that irony.)
> 
> My original concept also involved Connor telling both Cornelius _and_ Claire about Tommy, but then things spun out a bit differently. Connor reminded me that Cornelius is the last person he'd think would have the _right_ to know about Tommy, so I went for the angle included here. As for Claire, her section was supposed to end with Connor showing up and saying that he should have told her something a long time ago, but then Claire decided that she actually met Tommy ages ago and pieced things together, so I had to run with that. 
> 
> You may also notice that this is now the first story in a series. I'd been debating on adding that in from the start, because I do have some ideas kicking around about the Merlyn Boys that aren't from Connor's POV (such as the backstory for Claire knowing about Tommy, and a very special, _brutal_ reveal we're not going to get into on this outing). Nothing written or set in stone yet, but there's a high probability that there's more of this 'verse to come.
> 
> But first, we have one more chapter and an epilogue left! Both are finished outside of editing (and frankly contain many of my absolute favorite scenes), so we're most likely looking at a posting schedule over the next few days. Next weekend at the very latest, but likely sooner.
> 
> Until then!


	3. Part III: ReVelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor isn't as alone as he's long thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I just ran into like the fifth person I've never seen before but who apparently seems to recognize me, so either I'm _really_ that terrible at remembering people, or I honestly live in the same neighborhood as my own doppelgänger... This event, combined with the fact that I'm more than a little eager to release the rest of this story out into the wild after wrapping up those final missing scenes last chapter, is why we're getting yet another new chapter so soon. 
> 
> Not too much to say this time around. Some familiar faces pop back up, revelations (as stylized in the chapter title--I was trying to keep with the "five" theme and was at a loss, so I went with a little Roman numeral fun) are made, and the stupid sibling shenanigans return... just not in the way you might be expecting.
> 
> Please also consider the tissue warning in effect, in particular for the third and final timestamp. My test audience has reported copious crying, and I simultaneously destroyed my own soul and had too much fun doing so while working on that section.
> 
> And so, onwards to our final regular chapter.

> _**Chicago, February 2017** _

Connor manages to make it from his L stop and to the diner in record time, and only twelve minutes behind schedule, even after that delay coming out of the Loop.

It’s only thanks to the unseasonably warm weather that he didn’t wipe out on the would-be icy sidewalk during the mad-dash to his destination.

Bracing himself against the wall next to the entrance, Connor takes a moment to catch his breath and survey the interior of the diner in order to find Claire. Given its small size and even smaller Wednesday night crowd, he clears the front room easily without any sign of his sister.

As if on cue, Claire comes up the aisle from the back of the restaurant to greet him.

“Glad you made it, birthday boy” she says with a genuine smile, pulling him in for a gentle hug. “I took the liberty of ordering for you, seeing as you rarely ever get anything different.”

Connor shrugs sheepishly as he quickly returns the embrace. “Guilty as charged.”

They’d been coming to the diner since they were children—less expensive than many of the other meal options they’d visit on the regular—to the point where, even as the years passed and Connor cut himself off from Chicago, the Rhodes siblings were still considered regulars. When Claire suggested they celebrate Connor’s birthday for this first time in too long, just the two of them, it was no question of where they would dine.

Claire lets her smile linger just a moment longer, before it drops into something more serious, but not grave. “The other reason why I already took care of the order is because there’s something important we need to discuss.” She holds up her hands in a placating gesture. “It’s… not necessarily a _bad_ thing, but you need to know.”

Stomach turning, Connor silently follows Claire into the other room of the diner. She must have requested that they be seated back there for privacy, given that the area is even emptier than the sparsely-filled front room. In fact, the only other person there is a young woman with a brunette bob, seated with her back to the approaching siblings.

Connor follows suit as Claire stops at the very same table, his brow furrowing as the confusion sets in. He turns to face the woman in the booth in search of answers, and stiffens once he sees her face.

“Hi,” she starts hesitantly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s been a while, so I’m not sure if you remember…”

“_Thea_,” he interrupts in surprise. Eyes not leaving her face, Connor slides into the booth after Claire, taking the seat directly opposite their visitor.

“I never apologized for meeting the way we did,” he admits. “You were grieving your own brother, and my showing-up was like rubbing salt in the wound.”

Thea shakes her head. “Maybe so, but that doesn’t excuse the way I reacted.”

Connor offers a small nod in forgiveness, before finally breaking his stare and glancing to Claire for a split-second. “How do you two know each other?”

Claire just raises an eyebrow at him. “Straight to the point, hmm?” she teases, but obliges his request. “I was… looking into something, and came across Thea along the way. It just so turned out that _she_ was looking for _you_.”

Connor turns back to Thea, confused. “You were?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t reach out to you sooner,” she blurts, worrying the corded bracelet on her wrist. “A lot happened over these last few years, even after…”

She takes a sharp breath in and trails off, but Connor knows all too well what—or _who_—was going to come next.

Despite that hesitation, Thea presses on, guiltily averting her eyes to the coffee mug cupped in her hands. “I had the means to find you, but just was never able to get around to it, I guess.”

“That’s alright,” Connor reassures her, though the answer is becoming even hazier. Just what does Thea Queen want with him that she’d go out of her way to track him down?

“It’s not,” she argues back, a bit of fire simmering behind it. “I was never able to tell Tommy—I didn’t even know until a year after, too late. And I remembered you, and realized what that meant, and I should have _done something_ about it as soon as I could.”

Thea makes as if to finally fill in the blanks she’s been laying out, but instead takes a deep breath and grits her teeth behind firmly sealed lips. She turns away, eyes attaining the faintest hints of moisture, as one fist clenches on the table.

The scene before him throws Connor back a number of years, to his old Gotham apartment and his brother, struggling to process a revelation he couldn’t accept. For a second, it’s as if Tommy’s form is superimposed over Thea’s, and then suddenly…

_“…as Thea likes to remind me, she’s not our little sister…”_

“Oh,” is all Connor can manage as the unspoken becomes clear to him.

That makes the second blood sibling in less than a decade.

* * *

> _ **Chicago, May 2018** _

“Thank you for reminding me to invest in a window alarm unit.”

Connor stares pointedly into the dark corner of his living room until there at last comes the faint shuffle of fabric and the shadows take form.

“Thea told me where to find you,” Oliver Queen says by way of explanation, stepping into the light but still giving Connor a wide berth.

Connor hums flatly in response, drifting into the kitchen to set down his grocery bags. “I figured as much, but that’s still not a reason why you’d be in my apartment. Or in my city, for that matter.” He arches a brow, sharp and knowing. “Don’t you have other _commitments_ back home?”

Queen matches him with a piercing stare. “Nothing that can’t wait, or be handled without my input. This is more important.” He goes silent a moment, eyes flitting away from Connor’s face but still noticeably watching him. “I realize that things aren’t… in the best place, between us.”

Stunned by the admission, Connor barks out a bitter laugh. “Phrasing it like that makes it sound like we had anything to do with each other outside of being Tommy’s brother and best friend—which we _didn’t_.” He narrows his eyes at Queen, unloading bags in tandem with his feelings towards the other man. “We’ve spoken all of one time, not even directly face-to-face, and that was because Tommy initiated it. We haven’t been in orbit of each other for the last five years.”

(Connor pointedly ignores the fact that Thea does, in technicality, serve as the new connection between them. He doesn’t want to think about how he’s a few steps short of related to _Oliver Queen_.)

“That’s why I wanted to apologize,” Queen presses on, crossing the threshold and stopping on the other side of the kitchen island. “I should have been the one to tell you, or at the very least checked in at some point in the aftermath. But I let my own grief consume me, like I was the only one mourning, and for that I’m…”

“Do _not_ finish that sentence.” It comes out as a snap, but still much tamer than how Connor had long expected such a confrontation to go. “You have _never_ had any obligation to me, just because I’m genetically identical to your best friend. He was your brother long before he was mine, so don’t you dare frame the concern about my well-being as a duty you failed to see through.”

Queen appears taken aback, as if truly seeing Connor as a separate person, rather than just the mirror image of his dead best friend. It’s gone almost too soon to register, though.

“You’re right,” he admits, “I shouldn’t have seen caring about you as a responsibility I felt I owed. That still doesn’t excuse the fact that I didn’t even try to reach out then or any time in the years between.”

“Yeah, well, even now you’re only here because Thea told you,” Connor points out, snapping his eyes up to meet Queen’s and leveling a hard stare. “And I can tell you’re still seeing Tommy every second you look at me. That’s another reason why you never showed before now, isn’t it?”

The clear tension in Queen’s jaw and the accompanying silence are confirmation enough. Connor tilts his chin up, acknowledging this unspoken confession, and turns away in assumption that this conversation is over.

“Are you saying _you_ don’t?” It’s quiet, almost curious, but still simmering with a certain fire. “That whenever you catch yourself in the mirror, you don’t _remember_, or think about how things should have been?”

Connor refuses to give Queen the satisfaction of seeing his expression as those (accurate) words hit home, but Queen senses it anyway.

“Look, I know something about islands,” he starts, “and while I’m… not the best about accepting help, I _do_ know the importance of having allies. Especially on a night like tonight.”

And as much as Connor hates to admit it, hates that this man—his twin’s best friend and might-as-well-have-been-brother—is able to read him for everything he’s shoved deep down and only just started to let seep through the cracks… Queen has a point.

“Five years to the day,” Connor finally says, turning back to face Queen… _Oliver_. “That’s… that’s longer than I even _knew_ him. It’s practically nothing compared to the time I’d lived without him before we met, but…”

Connor trails off, heaving a deep breath. This isn’t something he’s ever voiced aloud or expected to, especially not to the present company, but something about the situation feels like the right time.

“…It’s just… living without a sibling when you don’t know they exist is painfully different than living without them and knowing _exactly_ what you lost.” He pauses, voice shaking even as he tries to keep his composure. “And I don’t think I really know how to do that yet.”

Footsteps, and then a cautious yet firm hand settles upon Connor’s shoulder. It’s a wordless gesture, but nonetheless radiates more comfort than any guilt-tinged truths ever could.

* * *

> _**Chicago, February 2019** _

Connor’s 34th birthday heralds the light at the end of the polar vortex, and as such, his coworkers are much less inclined to let him escape any sort of festivities this year. The cadre of nurses drag him through the manageably cold winter air and down to Molly’s, where the rest of the ED team has already gathered for their first night out since the cold snap hit.

Connor tells himself that it’s the lingering chill that makes the hairs of his neck stand on-end when Dr. Charles leads the rest of the Gaffney crew in a sincere rendition of “Happy Birthday,” and not the face-slap reminder that he’s _yet another_ year older than Tommy. Still, he thanks the makeshift choir just as genuinely, before requesting a glass of the house-recommended scotch.

His phone chimes about a third of the way into his second glass.

Connor’s immediate thought is that it’s one of his sisters. But Thea’d already sent him a birthday-themed meme in the wee hours of the morning, and Claire left a message confirming tomorrow’s dinner plans while he was in the OR.

For a split second, Connor considers Oliver Queen himself—the two of them having reached a truce that night they’d come face-to-face—but he still figures it’d be more likely to find the man lurking in his apartment again than to get a “happy birthday” text.

All speculation falls aside when it finally catches up that the tone was for his email account, not a text alert.

Connor shrugs as he unlocks the screen and taps the Mail icon. Probably just another birthday coupon, nothing too important. Although, he wouldn’t mind receiving a special discount from…

“Wait, isn’t that from that old video time capsule site?” April remarks, peering over Connor’s shoulder and at the screen. “You actually did one of those?”

The exclamation draws the attention of the other members of their party, who slowly begin to converge around Connor. Hearing mention of the once-popular service must be a truly rare occurrence.

“I haven’t thought about that in _years_,” Natalie confirms, sidling up next to April. “Although that’s probably the point, to put whatever you recorded out of your mind until the set time. Still, I’d have thought it’s been long defunct, with the way it just faded out of popularity.”

If that’s true, then clearly the video embedded in the body of the email didn’t get the memo.

“How long was this one set?” Will asks. He tries not to sound too interested, but he and his beer bottle inch ever-so-slightly closer.

“Ten years since it was started,” Connor says without hesitation, though the words come out tight against the lump in his throat. “But it’s a series of videos, and it’s incomplete.”

The deactivated email address to which the video compilation had also been sent was reminder enough of that last fact.

“Still, there’s something in there,” Maggie points out. “Go on, let’s pop open that time capsule.”

Connor really shouldn’t—it’s a private video series, an inside joke. But without someone else to share the joke, all it serves as is a tragic memory. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have some outside support.

Before he can backtrack or think better of the idea, Connor hits Play.

-**2009-**

Tommy’s face filling the screen—eternally young and grinning like he’s just had a wild idea—is even more of a sucker punch than Connor anticipated.

_“Hellooooo from 2009!” Tommy calls, tossing his head back as he enthusiastically drags out the greeting. _

“Wow,” Will remarks, voice blunt but eyes wide as he takes a swig of his beer. “That is by _far_ the cheeriest I have ever seen you. I… I don’t think I can handle that.”

Connor debates a moment between ignoring that comment or bursting Will’s bubble with the truth. It’s a moot decision, though, as 2009 Connor steps into frame and the room goes silent in shock.

_“What are you— are you recording this?” He squints over Tommy’s shoulder and at the phone in suspicion. _

_Tommy scoffs. “Keen observation there, doc.”_

_“Alright, let me rephrase: _why_ are you recording this?”_

_Tommy fully turns his gaze away from the camera to address Connor as an aside, though the speakers still pick up his muffled explanation. “This guy I hang out with sometimes just launched this website that allows you to upload videos to be stored for a custom amount of time, and then they’ll be emailed back to you when the time is up. Kinda like a time capsule.”_

_Tommy turns back to the camera, an easy smile on his face. “I already set up an account for us, and adjusted the time lock for ten years from now. Figured we’d start a birthday tradition, make a little video to commemorate every year, and then get them all back as a series on the tenth year.”_

_Connor hums in mixed curiosity and distrust. “Not a bad idea, but why do I feel like there’s a catch you’re going to throw in here?”_

_“No catch!” Tommy swears, but his resolve cracks with the smirk spreading across his face. “Although, if I remember correctly, you said you learned the choreography to ‘Single Ladies’ for last year’s departmental holiday party?”_

_“…I hate you so much right now.”_

_“Oh come on, it’ll be a great way to launch this series! And besides, it’s not like anyone else is going to watch this besides 2019 you and me.” Tommy raises an eyebrow and points at the screen. “And by the way, 2019 Connor, you work with sharp objects all day, _please_ just take one to that beard every once in a while.”_

Someone (_Ethan_) makes a very distinctive laugh-cough at that, and it takes all of Connor’s willpower not to shoot a withering glare over his shoulder.

_The Connor on recording, on the other hand, gets his vengeance. “Hey, 2019 Tommy, at least _I _can dance.”_

_Despite that last comment, the video does not, in fact, feature Connor shaking a noticeably ring-free hand. The brothers keep flinging good-natured insults at each other until Connor surreptitiously manages to end the recording before having to bust out some dance moves._

“Okay,” Maggie starts, taking great care to keep her voice calm and level. “Connor, I understand that you’re an incredibly private person, but after almost _four years_ you’ve just never mentioned that you somehow have a tw-…”

Connor cuts her off with a solemn shake of his head—a clear “not now.” This is a conversation he by no means expected to have tonight, and his silence on the matter will be incredibly clear by the end of the recordings.

-**2010-**

Or maybe even by the beginning of the second.

_“It’s a new decade, and the Merlyn Boys are here to ring in 25!” Tommy crows, face aglow with both excitement and the multicolored pulses of light overhead._

Based on the multiple sharp inhales that resound at the name, it’s clear to Connor that his audience is starting to put the pieces together.

_The speaker catches Connor’s off-camera yell of “I never signed off on that name!” at which Tommy rolls his eyes. _

_“Alright, but I’m just saying, ‘One Merlyn Boy and his Rhodes-Should-Have-Been-a-Merlyn of a Brother’ is _way_ too long for a band name.”_

_He grins at the camera as he lifts his free hand into view, a quarter pinched between his fingers. “Now, as a refresher, this is the inaugural year of the Birthday Coin Toss, which will determine the fate of the evening—and that of the dignity of one brother. Connor, as you are this year’s biggest loser…”_

_“Two out of three! It should have been best two out of three!”_

_“…As you are this year’s biggest loser, I’ve decided that tonight’s festivities—and your consequence—will be here at Central City’s finest karaoke bar, where we will enchant the crowd with a rendition of a hit song from another famous set of brothers.”_

As it turns out, Tommy recorded the _entirety_ of their time burnin’ up the stage. Looking back on it, while the song choice was hardly one he would make willingly, Connor had to concede that they sounded pretty damn good.

**-2011-**

_“It’s 2011. Tommy, you lost this year’s coin toss, and since you so love to argue that you’re the eldest, tonight we’re partying it up with your peers.” _

_The camera pans away from Connor’s face to scan the room. The locale is far from the club scene typically befitting the Merlyn scion, with faint chatter as the backing soundtrack and tables packed with grandparents._

_The banner at the front of the room, draped from the ceiling, reads “Gotham Community Center Seniors Bingo Night.” _

_The camera turns again to Connor, who has a hand partially propping up his chin and partially covering his mouth. He closes his eyes as an audible sigh comes from behind his hand. _

_“Apparently, I miscalculated.”_

_He turns the camera away from his shame and towards Tommy, who’s multi-tasking between his Bingo sheet and flipping through something on his phone._

_“What’s going on here?”_

_Tommy flicks his eyes up, grinning proudly. “Just missing an I and an O, and I’m trying to find Myrtle here a nice peashooter.” He wraps a friendly arm around the white-haired woman seated next to him, who waves him off in a “you’re too kind” fashion. “She’s got a real bad squirrel problem at home. They just won’t stay away from her bird feeders.”_

_Connor turns the camera back on himself, his hand now pinching his nose as if struck by a stress headache._

_“In the time we’ve been here, you’ve managed to get us onto three Christmas card lists, commissioned a gooey butter cake from someone’s family recipe, and set me up on a blind date with someone else’s granddaughter.”_

_“Maudie’s going to knit us matching sweaters!” comes over the speaker, and Connor turns the camera to catch Tommy waving triumphantly and a different, tiny woman with massive glasses hanging on his arm._

**-2012-**

Connor has no recollection of who won the coin toss this year—or much of what happened that night in general, given the concussion he somehow acquired from the events—and the video doesn’t make it much clearer. All it captures is the brothers screaming as they flee from three irate swans, wings flapping and hot on their tail.

**-2013-**

Connor almost skips the final video in the series, knowing the contents well enough—that was the time they went bowling for no real reason—and not wanting to face the fact that it was truly the end. But still he lets it run, managing to crack a smile at Tommy’s streak of gutter balls and his celebratory dances after each one.

Following one perfect strike from Connor (and Tommy’s incoherent exclamations of incredulity), the screen goes black, and Connor heaves a deep exhale to keep himself composed enough to exit out of the video screen. But as his thumb hovers over the white X in the top corner, the picture flickers back to life.

It’s _Tommy_. Specifically, it’s Tommy alone, seated on an unfamiliar couch and filming a video that Connor had been entirely unaware existed up until this moment.

_“Hey,” Tommy starts, scrubbing a hand down his face. “So, I know I’m cheating a bit here since we already did this year’s video, but I just… there are some things I have to say.”_

_He sighs, shoulders curling in as if to make himself small. “To be honest, I’m glad that your schedule didn’t work out this year and we had to celebrate a week early, because after the last few days…” Tommy lets out a nervous, bitter laugh. “Well, let’s just say _Dad_ happened, and then I had to do an on-the-spot emergency blood transfusion—you’d be so proud.” _

_He glances up at the camera just slightly, but enough to put the haunted look in his eyes on clear display. “And sometimes you learn that someone you trust, that you’d give your life for, has a different side that makes you reconsider everything you ever thought you knew.” Tommy leans back, clearly spent. “In short, it’s been a real Molotov cocktail of a birthday, and not in a fun way._

_“But I’m not making this to complain about something that’s bound to be a much more minor issue, in some way or another, in about six years’ time,” he assures. “The reason why is because I have a nice bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape and zero filter, and I’ve realized that I’ve never really said how much I truly appreciate you._

_“No, seriously, same face or not, you had no obligation to even talk to me, the dumbass selfish playboy who got himself punched, that first night. And you sure as hell didn’t have to keep in contact with me, even after we got the DNA results. I should know, blood is hardly the end-all-be-all, and you’d managed just fine without me dragging you down for over two decades. Why change that now?_

_“But you…” Tommy trails off, turning away to clear his throat and make a nearly unnoticeable swipe at his eyes. “You came back. And you _kept_ coming back, even though you were going on to save lives and I’d never worked a day in my life and it showed. I never anticipated having birthday and reunion day traditions that don’t involve copious amounts of booze and girls and recklessness just for the thrill of it, and having someone to turn to when things get really bad is well more than I deserve.”_

_The shine in Tommy’s eyes is clear now. “And the fact that I can’t even say this to your face when it matters… honestly, you deserve a much better brother than me. With what you’ve told me about your family, I wish you could have found out that your birth family was… I don’t know, a bunch of relief aid workers or legitimate philanthropists or just some quiet Midwestern family who are only famous for their blue-ribbon apple pie or something. Instead, you get the same dad all over again—a downgrade, even—and a genetic duplicate with chronic foot-in-mouth syndrome and no concept of consequences.”_

_Tommy reaches down to retrieve his wineglass, holding it aloft to the camera. “If we’re watching this together in 2019, I hope that future me is a better man enough to not simply brush this aside as some drunken rant, that I mean every word of it. But now, a toast to you, Dr. Connor Rhodes, the best Merlyn man of all: you’re gonna do great things, and keep doing great things. Mom… Mom would be proud.” _

_He swallows thickly. “And just… thank you for being there, through some of the worst years of my life, for just being the best twin brother I could have asked for. I love you, man. Happy birthday.”_

The picture cuts out for a truly final time, and Connor caves in on himself, a tortured man freed from his bonds. He doesn’t even realize his body is shaking until he feels Maggie’s hand settle comfortingly between his shoulder blades.

Tommy had probably made this under the assumption that when the time came, they’d maybe shed a few fond tears and hug it out. He’d have had no way of knowing that events in a few months’ time would reframe it forever.

“Oh, _Connor_,” Natalie murmurs empathetically, easing herself into the empty seat on his right. “I had no idea…”

“There’s no way you could have. Legally, Malcolm Merlyn’s other son has been dead for 34 years,” he cuts in, raising his head as high as he can muster in defiance of an impending breakdown. “Even before the Undertaking, we never saw fit to correct that knowledge. We just wanted to get to know each other as brothers, regardless of the Rhodes or Merlyn names.”

“And that worked for you?” Ethan asks, face closed off but demeanor radiating understanding.

Connor cocks his head and takes a sharp swig from his glass. “Surprisingly, yes. We avoided making too much of a scene that could track back to the Merlyn name when we hung out, but we didn’t actually need to be that careful. People were more likely to get caught up with the fact that we were identical than they were to recognize Tommy.”

He shrugs, trying to make the motion appear much more casual than it should. “Besides, it was only five years.”

“_Five_…” Will repeats breathlessly, the horror clear on his face as Connor glances over his shoulder. “That’s hardly any time at all.” Unfathomable, considering his closeness to his own brother.

“No,” Connor agrees—a first. “No, it really isn’t.”

The room drops into an uneasy silence, doctors and nurses at a loss for the best remedy for their infamously reserved coworker. There isn’t much else that can be said.

It’s Sarah Reese, surprisingly—or maybe not _that_ surprisingly—who knows what to do, reaching over Connor’s shoulder and pulling up his camera.

She says nothing as she does so, nor when Connor glances back at her, but it’s not as if he needs to hear it out loud. He already knows, and the tap of the red “record” button only seals the deal.

**-2019- **

“Hey, Tommy...”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does it help at all if I remind everyone that there's an epilogue to follow that at least offers some potential of hope?
> 
> I'll admit that I initially had different, _happier_ plans for this ending, which then changed course as I got deeper into writing and the story evolved. The more I delved into Connor's grief over losing Tommy, the more I realized I needed to have him reach some kind of acceptance and resolution, even if it hurt (both him and me). We started this narrative of Connor mourning with a habit already known to be unhealthy based on canon events (repetitively listening to a final voicemail, just like Malcolm), and thinking he's coping by pushing everything down and keeping it bottled up. Telling Claire and reuniting with Thea and Oliver helped ease the pressure, but I also wanted Connor to full-on confront Tommy's memory (and for the Med team to find out). The videos served a dual purpose of Connor finally getting some closure, and also to showcase even more Merlyn Boys hijinks. 
> 
> But as well as this ending worked as the conclusion to Connor's journey over the course of this story, I still wanted to chase after that original ending I planned, at least in some respect. Along the way, I started teasing out a couple other ideas I wanted to explore out of curiosity, which is how I ended up with the decision to add on an epilogue: "Five Reunions (that may or may not have happened)."
> 
> Pretty self-explanatory, I'd say. You'll get a nice sampler of bittersweet, further angst, and maybe even a truly happy ending... And yes, as much fun as I had writing all the variations of this concept, there is one take in particular that I consider the _true_ epilogue.
> 
> Since I've had these sitting eagerly in my files for a _very_ long time (the epilogues were the first scenes I finished completely), they'll make their debut tomorrow, because I have no patience whatsoever.
> 
> Until then!


	4. Epilogue: Five Reunions (that may or may not have happened)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some way or another, nothing can truly keep the brothers apart forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may regret posting this right before going into work on a Monday, but on the other hand, this is just that momentous an event.
> 
> This is it: the final piece of the passion project I vaguely started toying with years ago, began to fully develop just over five months ago, and finally managed to see through to completion as of now. I still can't quite believe it--for so long, I thought I would only have these epilogue scenes and a few scattered other timestamps, which would be left to languish unposted and incomplete on my hard drive. Some part of me never truly expected I'd let _Old enough_ see the light of day, but this officially makes for the longest completed multi-part story I've written, and _by far_ the most emotionally draining.
> 
> (Believe it or not, I used to think my proficiency was more with fluff fics, not heartwrenching cathartic angst...)
> 
> As previewed last chapter, this epilogue works as a collection of five "alternate endings" of a sort--it's a bit of a mix-and-match, where each of them individually can easily be used to cap off the previous three chapters. (Sort of like _Clue_, I guess.) One of these is indeed what I would consider the canonical epilogue, but I had fun working on all the other ones and wanted to include them all. 
> 
> You're going to find a mixed bag of scenes here: some will be angsty (or a bit tragic), others bittersweet, and a hopeful one or two. That said, please be forewarned for some instances of _implied/referenced character death, of the canonical, noncanonical, near-death experience, and future sort._ Nothing as agonizing as the Undertaking timestamp, but still a warning as a precaution.
> 
> And so: _five reunions._

> _ **I. Again** _

“Get up, go, go! I’m right behind you!”

The second he hears that cry, any harsh words Connor has about the Green Arrow and friends having their seemingly-annual team-up battle in the middle of downtown _Chicago, _of all places (at least Star City and Central City are familiar with and thus better equipped for these types of things!) go out the window.

He hears the scrabble of hurried footsteps amidst the crackling flames and collapsing concrete, and rushes forward as soon as they’re out of range. If he’s where he thinks he is—if that blast that caught him in the crossfire really did blow him back to _that night_—then it’d be best not to have any witnesses.

Sure enough, there in the center of the growing ruins is _Tommy_, chest heaving as he stumbles through the rubble and the rattling of the building to reach the exit.

This time, Connor is the one to stop breathing. The _only_ one who will in this building tonight, if he has any say about it.

Tommy trips on a loose piece of rebar, and Connor’s arms immediately snap out to catch his. Tommy returns the grip for stability, easing himself up and finally turning his gaze to his savior.

“_Connor_?” Tommy asks, reeling back in disbelief. “What— how did you even _get_ here?”

“Long story,” Connor replies, urgently tugging his brother along. “I’ll tell you when we’re out of here!”

(Well, at least the parts he can _actually_ answer. The whole time-travel thing is a variable that still needs solving.)

The shock of seeing his twin—who should still be out in _Gotham_ at this point, and looks just a hint older than he would last remember—visibly wears off for Tommy, and the awareness of the immediate danger settles back in. He grasps Connor’s arm tighter, and they start to move.

So does the rest of the building, imploding in a maelstrom of brick and flame. Somehow, it’s much, _much_ worse than Connor has seen in his nightmares, but with just another burst of speed...

. . .

He doesn’t get Tommy out in time. Thankfully, though, he doesn’t have to suffer the agony of his brother’s death anew.

That’s the one small mercy the crumbling ceiling grants him with its descent.

* * *

> _ **II. Visitation** _

Connor should consider himself lucky that it took this long to go from tending to patients at Gaffney to being one himself.

(Still doesn’t mean he’s happy about it.)

He comes to with a whine, though it’s less in reaction to the pain flaring along his right side and more to get an eye-roll out of Maggie. She’ll probably swat him with a folder and tease him over how his pretty face masks such a low pain tolerance, but still have the kindness to slip him the blue Jell-O she knows he prefers.

Upon cracking an eye open, Connor finds that there is no such head nurse nor jiggly dessert headed his way. Instead, there’s an achingly familiar specter leaning in the opposite corner, raising his eyebrow at the whole display.

Suddenly, blue Jell-O plummets down Connor’s list of priorities, making way for dealing with his twin brother’s _ghost_ in his hospital room.

“I hope you’re not planning to make this a frequent thing,” Tommy remarks, pushing off the wall and moving silkily closer to Connor’s bedside. “Because between you and Oliver, I’m going to have to start charging for my freelance guardian spirit services. _Triple_ if Thea joins up with you two drama queens.”

Mouth agape as this vision of his brother starts to set in, Connor scrambles to push himself upright into a seated position. With the tangle of connections from the heart monitor and oxygen cannula, he feels more like a trout flopping futilely in a fishing net. One particularly sharp move sets off the pain in his side, and a hiss of air escapes his gritted teeth as he curls in on himself.

“Whoa, hey, _easy_,” Tommy warns, springing into action. A nearly imperceptible weight lands on both Connor’s right arm and back, guiding him out of the tense position and delicately placing him upright, as intended.

“What… what happened?” Connor gasps out as soon as he manages to regulate his breathing. He woke with the clear recollection that _something_ landed him in the wrong role in the Gaffney ED, but the _what_ is still more than a little fuzzy.

Tommy’s face goes terrifyingly blank, which makes Connor wonder exactly how close of an eye his brother has been keeping on him from beyond this plane. Has he been there, just out of sight, for the birthday parties of one and somber remembrances of the past years? For every lost patient and breakdown? Did Tommy see exactly what happened that landed Connor in this bed, fearing that he wouldn’t even make it that far?

(Would he have been _relieved _if Connor hadn’t—no longer the only one on the outside looking in?)

“You got hit by a car,” Tommy finally says, pulling the visitor’s chair up to Connor’s bedside and taking a seat. “It was… the driver’s sister was a patient of yours.” He hesitates, visibly unsure if he should confess the whole story.

Connor pieces it together anyway.

“Sandra Stacey.” It had been a few months, but time hardly matters for a life he failed to save. “Her sister—Vera—was understandably distraught, but it did seem like there was something more… _volatile_ behind it.”

“Well, she gave herself plenty of time to simmer over it before she decided to run you down,” Tommy points out. “Your crew here caught her before she could take another pass, otherwise the outcome could have been much worse.”

Connor muses on that a moment. He really should consider himself lucky, then, if the only apparent damage is some pain along one side of his body. And even _that _is dulling down to an ache the longer he’s awake, dipping from an 8 to about a 2 on the pain scale.

“Vera placed her sister’s life in my hands, and I couldn’t bring her back safely,” Connor admits, speaking the words aloud for the first time. “I can’t fault her for holding a grudge.”

Tommy draws his mouth into a thin line, before crossing his arms and diverting his gaze. “Yeah, well,_ I_ can. I don’t take kindly to people trying to kill my siblings.”

“It takes a lot more than an SUV to take me down for the count.”

Something flickers in Tommy’s eyes, before it flits away. “Memory coming back?”

It had been an unconscious comment, yet as soon as Tommy asks, there’s a flash of an image in Connor’s mind—the sleek silver and black of the Tahoe’s front grill, the blend of rage and horror swirling on Vera Stacey’s face behind the wheel, and then…

“Not much,” Connor tells his brother, shifting in the bed. His hand and attention catch on the electrode patches from the cardiac monitor plastered on his chest, and promptly drift down to pick at the adhesive. Maggie wouldn’t be pleased with him for removing the sensors, but doing so would hardly be against medical advice, not if _Dr._ Connor Rhodes decides it’s okay.

Surprisingly, Tommy appears to be in Maggie’s camp, based on the way he startles in his seat at the motion. “What are you doing?”

Connor flaps a hand at his brother as he pries one sensor off with minimal flinching. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not going to remove everything, not until someone swings by. Don’t want to cause too much of a scare if all my vitals crash at once because I got up before anyone knows I’m awake.”

Hopefully the loss of one cardiac sensor’s stats would be enough to send over one of the nurses soon—Connor’s already getting more than a little impatient being stuck on this side of a hospital bed. The ache in his side has already fully dissipated, so unless he’s been overlooking any symptoms, then discharge should be right around the corner.

His brother—his _dead_ brother—seems to have different thoughts about that, though.

“No no no no no,” Tommy says hurriedly, lunging forward to shove Connor back down with a little bit more force than necessary. He fumbles with the electrode patch. “Get that back on and _don’t touch it_.”

Connor blinks owlishly up at his twin, confused by the onset of panic. “I said I don’t need it. I don’t need_ any_ of this. Maggie or April’ll be by in a moment to prove that.”

And really, what was taking them? Connor can clearly hear the prolonged beep of the heart monitor, which has been ringing out since he first disconnected.

The world beyond his room is oddly quiet for the heart of Gaffney’s activity, but it must be a busier day in the ED than it seems.

His mind drifts back to Tommy’s face, which is warped in clear desperation as his hands shake and slap the patch back on Connor’s chest.

For a second, the distress makes way for a glimmer of triumph, until both brothers cast their eyes to the monitor at the head of the bed.

The _still-blaring_ monitor.

The clarity strikes Connor faster than Vera Stacey’s SUV.

“This isn’t… I’m not…” he fumbles, words tripping over his tongue in a search to find the right ones. “I’m dying out there, aren’t I?”

“Not if I have any say about it,” Tommy fires back, heavily taking a seat on the bed. His eyes drift as he rolls up one sleeve, hand curling into a fist. “Man, I was really hoping it wasn’t going to come down to this.”

Connor draws back at the ominous phrasing. “What are you talking about?”

Tommy just sighs, ignoring the question, before he finally turns his gaze back to Connor. It’s fond yet a touch heavy-hearted, like this is something he doesn’t want to do, but knows that it’s the right thing.

“Listen, I meant what I said earlier, you better not make me swing by again any earlier than necessary,” he warns, placing his left hand on Connor’s shoulder to drive his point home. “Make the most of things. Climb that medical career ladder, make some friends, buy a Chia Pet. I hear they sell Bob Ross ones now.”

Connor manages to snap out of his shock for a split-second to give that last one a raised eyebrow.

Tommy shoots a wicked grin back at him, before his face goes soft and he leans back, his right arm moving with him as if winding up. “Oh, and name a kid after me, maybe?”

Connor’s voice returns just as Tommy’s fist rockets towards him. “Wait…”

His chest takes the impact, and the world rolls with a blinding light until—

“TOMMY!”

Connor jerks bolt upright, hands immediately clutching at his pounding heart.

“What th- _shit_!” rings out to his left, and Connor glances over just as Will jumps back and nearly knocks over the crash cart directly behind him.

The crash cart that was clearly being prepped for _Connor_, given the unused defibrillator paddles in April’s stunned hands.

He doesn’t get much time to take that in, before his entire right side decides to remind him that he is still _very much_ injured in the real world, and jolting up as he just did probably wasn’t the best move upon spontaneously _resurrecting_.

“_Ow_, you…” Connor grits out, glaring at the ceiling and hoping that his brother gets the message, wherever he is beyond life. “You can take your Bob Ross Chia Pet and _shove_ _it_.”

“I’d be curious about the context to that, but frankly I think I’m better off _not_ knowing,” Maggie quips as she slides around Will and April—still frozen in shock—and plops a container of blue Jell-O in Connor’s lap. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Dr. Rhodes.”

* * *

> _ **III. Distortion** _

“So, you’re a doctor,” Tommy—_Other_-Tommy, Connor substitutes for a number of reasons—recounts slowly, gaze leveled on the smooth wooden bar counter. “I’m dead, we didn’t grow up together, you’ve never even _met_ Malcolm, and your only business in Riyadh was strictly of the life-saving variety.”

Connor nods in confirmation, taking a deep swig of his scotch in the hopes of masking how unnerved this encounter is making him. He especially doesn’t like the emphasis on those specific details out of all the other aspects of his life, equally ripe for the picking-apart.

Other-Tommy breathes out a vague “huh” in response as he glances down at his own glass, kicking the lone ice cube up from the bottom. “Figures you’d be knife-happy here too. I guess it’s like they say: the more things change…”

He lets the phrase hang unfinished, instead preoccupying himself with the swirl of amber liquid and ice as the glass rotates on the counter. His interest is forced and half-hearted at best—Other-Tommy is simply avoiding any instance of meeting Connor’s eyes, and both of them know it.

Given the rage that had burned behind the blue as an eskrima stick was shoved against his throat—and the subsequent shock and horror upon recognizing the differences from his counterpart—Connor can’t fault this alternate version of his brother for the aversion.

That doesn’t mean he’s going to settle for meaningless half-answers.

“I take it we aren’t particularly _close_ in your world?” Connor bitingly prompts, knowing that the colossal understatement is more likely to get him answers than asking for the truth outright.

Based on the bitter laugh that comes in response, Other-Tommy’s caught on to his tactic, and is willing to concede.

“A lifetime ago, maybe,” he admits. “Back before Mom died, and Dad left, and then the _League_..”

Connor frowns at that. Tommy had never mentioned any sort of League, which meant that this was something that changed for _both_ of them. From the way Other-Tommy utters the word, dripping with equal parts hatred and _fear_, this is something without which they had been _much_ better off.

Other-Tommy must sense Connor’s stillness and know what it means. “Wow, you really _are_ the sheltered one, aren’t you?” he remarks, voice smooth but laced with venom. “Never having encountered or even _heard_ of the League of Assassins. I thought that was a hallmark of _all_ rich boys with tragic pasts traveling the world to find themselves.

“Anyway, we were… oh, eleven-ish when Dad—_Al-Sahir_—came back, took one look at us, and decided that he just couldn’t have such _weak_ sons when he could make far better use of devoted soldiers in his so-called undertaking.” Other-Tommy lifts his head until his gaze meets the shelves of liquor directly across from him, which is as close as Connor expects he’ll get to eye contact. “So he took us with him back to Nanda Parbat, and from then on…”

He stutters to a stop, and for a moment Connor thinks that’s all he’ll ever get out of this twisted mirror image of his twin. But then Other-Tommy turns, full-on facing Connor in his seat, with his face and eyes laid bare of everything but raw emotion.

For an instant, a flash of Tommy—the _real_ Tommy—crosses Connor’s line of sight, stripped of all humor and anger and _hope_ as he waits absently by a locked door. That one split second, and it becomes clear to Connor that _this_ Tommy—cynicism and indubitable trauma aside—isn’t all that different at heart.

“Tell me,” Other-Tommy says, the words just short of a choke. “In the time you knew him, did your… _me_ ever get trapped in a downward spiral, with no apparent escape?”

Connor’s chest seizes, uncertain of where this is going, but answers as truthfully as he can.

“Neither of us were in the best place when we found each other,” he confesses, matching his not-quite-brother’s stare. “But I think the fact that we _did_—knowing that, in a world where the people we loved and trusted were dwindling down to nothing, there was someone else out there who knew the same… I think that was what saved us.”

A moment of silence passes, but then Other-Tommy nods in heartbroken understanding, once again letting his eyes sink away from Connor’s and down to the bar counter.

“That… see, _that_ is exactly what I think _damned_ us,” he says. From the shakiness in both his voice and shoulders, he’s succumbing to hysterics or despair (or a cocktail of the two) and struggling to keep it controlled. “Because after years of doing _horrifying_ things beside my brother—the two dutiful, _perfect_ Sons of the Magician—I finally saw a way out of that pit, and had every intention of bringing him along with me.”

The ice in Connor’s glass is long melted, but a new cluster begins to grow in his heart when he starts to assemble the pieces Other-Tommy has finally dumped on the table.

“I climbed, scrabbling for any hand- and footholds I could find until I was more frequently shedding my own blood than I was anyone else’s,” he continues, voice rising with the tension in his body.

It immediately dissipates, though, and Other-Tommy’s shoulders sag, completely spent. “I’d thought he was right there with me, that we were going to reclaim our lives from the League and Malcolm _together_. But at one point, when we ran into some trouble in Riyadh, I reached out and he just…” A single, haunted eye sneaks a glance up at Connor, punctuation to the final whispered words: “….let go.”

The last two words ring in Connor’s head as the chill continues to spread. Is that what their story always came down to—two brothers, one refusing to let go when the other already has? One seemingly lost for good, and the other forever haunted by the inability to stop it?

For the only time in his life, Connor considers it a blessing that Tommy isn’t alive to know about this. They at least had it easy, a close relationship that was only severed by the veil of death. Other-Tommy, by comparison, has a living twin, but one who deals death and needs to be stopped.

Tommy _had_ always said that Connor was the evil twin.

* * *

> _ **IV. Denouement** _

Connor Rhodes dies one February day in 1985 after a scant few hours of life, though no such death certificate exists under his name.

Dr. Connor Rhodes, respected surgeon and a Merlyn by blood, finds himself fading peacefully 86 years later, his youngest grandchild napping by his side.

He’d never managed to find out who swapped the Rhodes child and a Merlyn twin or why—whether it was deliberate or merely a mix-up—but in the end it was hardly a concern. What had been done was done, and being a Merlyn meant nothing when he’d already lost everything he could care about under the name. He’d likewise spent years of his life trying to distance himself from the Rhodes name because of his history, when he should have concerned himself with being _Connor_, regardless of his surname (true or mistaken).

It was a lesson learned late but nonetheless, and with bountiful rewards. The decades granted him with success in both his career—eventually serving as chief of cardiothoracic surgery at Gaffney--and his personal life, having built a family of his own and established lasting close friendships.

Yet even with such outcomes—and the expanding prevalence of superheroes and their various life-altering crises—the years had never been able to return his brother. It wasn’t fair, Connor had long argued, that for 23 years Tommy had thought him dead, only for them to get a mere five years together as brothers before Connor was left to live out his life as the true sole survivor.

But for how little time he’d physically spent in Connor’s life, Tommy Merlyn was far from forgotten; a fact with which he currently delights himself, as his incorporeal hand grazes his grand-niece’s forehead.

“Her parents just thought Tamsin was a pretty name,” Connor rebuts, slowly rolling his head on the pillow to give his brother the most pointed glance he can muster—likely about as sharp as a pair of safety scissors, thanks to the cataracts.

The statement is a half-truth—his daughter had indeed gravitated to the first name because she liked the sound. That said, she was also well aware of both the Rhodes and Merlyn family history, which had definitively sealed the deal.

Tommy hums in cheerful disbelief, not buying the explanation in the slightest. “Tell me, does she go by Tammy for short? Because I have to say, she doesn’t look like one.”

Despite the dwindling number of breaths he’s most certain he has left, Connor heaves a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I forgot how insufferable you are.”

“Ah, but you missed it. So is it Tommi-with-an-i, or are we name twins?”

“…She likes it with an –ie,” Connor finally surrenders, dropping his hand to the comforter.

Tommy grins up at him in smug triumph, before his gaze turns soft and back down to Tommie’s messy dark hair.

“You know, I’m really glad everything worked out for you. You were already halfway to being your own man when we met, just bogged down by a lot of resentment. While me, I just…”

Connor’s frail hand grazes his brother’s and Tommy immediately cuts off, as if registering the motion like an actual weight (and maybe it is—maybe the wall between the twins is that much thinner already). He looks up almost timidly, eyes watching Connor with rapt attention.

“You deserved just as much,” Connor assures him firmly, grasping the notably more solid hand just the same to drive the point home.

Tommy’s mouth is slightly agape, speechless, for a moment, but soon widens into a gentle smile as he eases himself up from the bed.

“We’ll have plenty more time to talk about that later,” he says, clapping a hand playfully on Connor’s shoulder. “I didn’t just stop in for a social call, after all.”

Connor leans into the gesture, his soul feeling decades younger already. “Lead the way.”

* * *

> _ **V. Reemergence** _

It’s the end of a grueling 13-hour shift, and the one thing Connor has on his mind is how amazing his bed is going to feel when he falls into it the second he returns home.

He’s immensely grateful that he decided to take the L in today rather than his car, because with the way his awareness is already waning he’d be a veritable road hazard.

Case in point: Connor is simultaneously halfway out of his lab coat and halfway into his leather jacket, perplexed over how he even got here, when Sarah pops her head into the staff locker area.

“Dr. Rhodes?” There’s a sharp uptick at the end of his name, as if she’s surprised to find him here.

Connor takes this as his cue to shake off the screensaver dancing behind his eyes and make a decision on the coat thing. Shucking off the white coat and slipping the now bare arm through the remaining leather sleeve, he turns to the door. “Dr. Reese. How can I help you?”

_Please don’t let it be a consultation_, he begs silently. It’s already taking more effort than necessary to string words together in question form—his brain is toast if he has to toss in medical jargon.

Sarah eyes him with that wide-eyed expression that had once been so commonplace, yet it seems like _he’s_ the source of her bewilderment. “Um, Dr. Charles is…” She hesitates, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as if unsure of how to continue.

Given the mention of Dr. Charles and the way Sarah keeps examining him, vaguely unsettled—and the fact that it would be just his luck—Connor figures that yep, he’s needed for a consult.

“Gimme a sec, okay?” he slurs around a sudden yawn, blindly grasping for his lab coat again. “What can you tell me about the patient backgro…”

“No, no,” Sarah waves her hands frantically, stepping all the way into the room. She gently guides his hand away from the coat that he’s finally managed to latch onto. “It’s not… we don’t need you for a case. It’s just…”

There’s the nervousness again as she scans his face, and the longer she does it the clearer it becomes to Connor that it’s not his exhaustion that’s off-putting. It’s as if she’s trying to find something new, some discerning trait on a face she knows so well.

“Reese?” he prompts, the silence and scrutiny beginning to set him on edge.

She snaps to, taking an apologetic step back, though her eyes don’t leave his. “You need to see this,” she finally says, voice firmer than Connor thinks he’s _ever_ heard it.

Clearly, this means business.

Connor follows Sarah out of the locker room and into the ED proper, mind defogging as it runs through all sorts of scenarios that could be afoot. What on earth could have rattled Sarah Reese _this_ much, yet left her standing so resolute?

The answer starts to coalesce as they stop short of the nurses’ station, a few feet away from where Dr. Charles is in deep conversation with someone in street clothes, their back to Connor and Sarah.

“Identification? _Right_, identification,” the newcomer says, presumably in response to a previous question from Dr. Charles, and Connor’s blood goes cold. “Well, because I apparently live in a world where people have legitimate _superpowers_ now, the best I can give you is a picture of my headstone, which made getting carded at that 7-11 back in Starling_ really_ awkward.”

Dr. Charles nods good-naturedly, his natural patience and listening ear rolling with what must be among the stranger conversations he’s had with someone over the course of his career. “I imagine so. Now, are you saying this headstone was put up in error? That you were falsely presumed dead but were in fact simply missing?”

The other figure sighs, shoulders sagging. “That’s Oliver’s schtick, not mine. I’m very well aware of the consequences of impalement through a vital organ.”

A hum of understanding, then Dr. Charles raises his head and conspicuously directs a knowing look over his companion’s head to Connor. The motion is clearly intended to draw the other man’s attention, as he pivots and…

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I decided to leave _my_ leather jacket at home, otherwise we’d be twinsies.”

It’s not the identical face—right down the_ beard_, which earns a raised eyebrow—that convinces Connor. Nor is it the voice, so similar to his own yet markedly _different_, or the instantly-recognizable shit-eating grin.

No, it’s that comment—such a classic, dorky line, unique yet so familiar—that breaks Connor for the first time in a long time, and proves to him that this is really _real_.

“_Tommy_,” he says, choking on his brother’s name after years of disuse as a greeting. “How… how are you…”

Tommy splays his arms out in a wide, lazy shrug, pushing himself away from the nurses’ station and taking a few experimental steps forward. “Haven’t the faintest. I’m out of it for a few years, occasionally stopping in to drop a few motivational speeches on my best friend like some ghostly life coach, and one day it’s like…” He pauses, a loss for coherent words, and instead makes vague rotational motions with his hands. “I guess it was like the universe tore itself open? I blink, and I’m lying on my grave—thankfully not _in_ it.”

Connor agrees—the concept of his brother having to claw his way to the surface upon being buried suddenly alive was not an image he wanted to entertain.

“Look, it’s been a weird few days,” Tommy sighs in exasperation. “I resurrect with no money or ID, find out they changed the name of the entire city, discover that just about everyone I know is either… _gone_ or MIA, and have to somehow make my way across the country to get here.”

He crosses his arms, regarding Connor with a dubious expression. “By the way, I seem to recall you saying that you were never going back to Chicago. Like, _very _vehemently.”

Connor mirrors the gesture, paying no mind to Maggie’s smothered laughter from the other side of the counter. “Things change,” he defends.

“Oh, I know, I know.” Tommy’s hands go up in surrender, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. “I’m just saying, there were many choice words used. Something about the Cubs winning the World Series before you’d even dream of going back?”

…Okay, Connor had to admit he’d stepped in that one.

Tommy revels a moment, before he waves it off and jumps back to where he left off. “But hey, on the bright side, I think I’m handling the whole ‘inexplicable resurrection’ thing pretty well! No urges to go on a bloodthirsty rampage or a newfound craving for brains.”

While that’s truly all well and good, the confirmation is unrelated to Connor choosing that moment to pull Tommy—his brother, his _twin_, alive!—into a hug.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, quietly enough that only they can hear. There’s only so much that can be done to make it a private reunion when surrounded by Connor’s coworkers, their expressions ranging from empathetic tears of joy to lingering bewilderment that there are _two_ of them.

A “Missed you too, confirmed little brother,” is mumbled into his jacket in response, voice heavy with relief as Tommy’s grip tightens.

Finally, for the first time in years—the second in his life altogether—Connor feels a missing piece slot back into place, a second half of a bigger-picture whole, and everything just…

_Wait._

“I’m sorry, _confirmed_ little brother?”

Tommy pulls back, a smug grin sneaking across his face. “Didn’t expect that outcome, did we?”

Connor’s mouth opens and closes without sound as he stumbles for a defense. “No, it’s just… how did you even find out?”

“There’s a certain enlightenment to being dead.” An unearthly look steals over Tommy’s eyes.

Yeah, Connor’s not buying it.

“Alright, fine. I got ahold of our birth records ages ago and never said anything,” Tommy confesses. “And right there in ink: 12:19 PM,” he gestures to himself, and then towards Connor, “12:32. A full 13 minutes of a head-start.”

“I still want to see the proof.”

“Wait a second. So I come up here after _dying_ six years ago, telling you I’ve been mysteriously resurrected, and you’re more likely to believe _that_ than the fact that _I’m_ older?”

“You didn’t give me any reason to doubt your explanation. But what you’re claiming now…”

_ **-Fin-** _

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I have to call out which one is the "canon" reunion here, do I? (I promise, I'm not _quite_ so evil that I would say "Again"...)
> 
> For some reason, I locked onto the running gag of "which one of us is older" and Connor trying _very_ hard (but not successfully enough) to hide how much he really cares about it and wants to be the eldest--it was just such a ridiculous thing that would catch serious, broody Dr. Connor Rhodes's concern that I had to do it. So having this final confirmed payoff was a delight. (And really, Connor is only the younger twin because we got Tommy as a character first.)
> 
> Outside of "Reemergence" as the official epilogue, my other favorites to work on were "Visitation" and "Distortion." The former was a bit reminiscent of Tommy's posthumous appearances in canon, so it was fun to give it my own spin, and it's home to, frankly, the funniest bit of dialogue I've ever written (I'm not going to be able to look at Chia Pets again without _losing it_). The latter, on the other hand, was a bit of a self-indulgent exploration into a concept I would have loved to see rather than, _ahem_, various evil alternate Tommys.
> 
> But now, a thank you to _you_, dear readers, for sticking with me through this purely self-indulgent project and all the ensuing heartbreak. I truly appreciate your enjoyment, and hearing of the instances that made you cry.
> 
> I'll be taking a bit of time to recoup (because this fic honestly sapped me of all my emotional reserves) and maybe work on a couple smaller things, but I'm aiming to be back soon enough to kick off the supplemental stories for this 'verse. The current plan is to write and post them under one title as an anthology (tentative title: "A Voice Behind the Wall"), but we'll see how things work out.
> 
> In the meantime, you can catch me (perpetually airing out my Tommy Merlyn feels) on Tumblr at obscure-sentimentalist.
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


End file.
